


The Things We Can't Help

by Secretbadass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Blow Jobs, Caring John, Come Swallowing, Comfort, Consensual Kink, Emetophilia, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Expressing what they mean to each other, Frottage, John gives spectacular head, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Squick, Voice Kink, Vomiting, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-06 05:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14049711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretbadass/pseuds/Secretbadass
Summary: PLEASE HEED THE TAGS. Sherlock and John admit they each have a vomit trigger and John thinks he may have a vomit kink. Together, they agree to explore the kink, and the experience deepens their relationship in unexpected ways.The ongoing puke chronicles of Sherlock and John. Some are erotic, some are just sick fics, and some feature only incidental puking. All chapters stand alone, although 1 and 2 are related.





	1. The Things We Can't Help

John had put in a seemingly neverending day at the surgery, and now, as he reached the pavement outside 221B, he could hear Rosie crying. The sound carried clearly through the closed windows and over the sounds of Baker Street. Something was obviously very wrong. He opened the door and hurried upstairs, where the crying rose to deafening levels. He found Sherlock pacing the floor with the inconsolable toddler in his arms.

“What’s wrong?” John raised his voice to make himself heard over Rosie's wails. His daughter was normally fairly even-tempered as toddlers went, especially when she got one-on-one time with her beloved Sherlock. Going by the redness and dampness of her face, though, she had been crying hard for several minutes already.

“I don’t know,” said Sherlock. “She hasn’t seemed right since lunchtime and she wouldn’t eat any dinner, and then a few minutes ago she started crying for no reason and I don’t know what’s wrong. Nothing I’ve done has helped.”

Rosie reached wordlessly for her father, her face a picture of misery. John went into doctor mode as he took his daughter into his arms. He slipped a hand under her top to see if she felt hot. “You don’t have a fever, love, so what’s—” The answer came a moment later. Rosie abruptly stilled and quieted, eyes wide, and then unleashed a torrent of vomit all over herself and John.

“Ah,” said John. “Well, that explains that. Sherlock, could you—” He broke off at the sound of gagging from across the room. Sherlock was backed against the wall, one hand covering his mouth and nose. Clearly no help would be forthcoming from that quarter.

Well, that was unexpected. “O...kay. Never mind, love," he said to the detective. "I’ve got this.” Sherlock simply nodded, sagging weakly against the wall.

John carried Rosie into the bathroom and started the shower, giving it time to come up to temp while he stripped himself and Rosie of their soiled clothing. Rosie was calmer for now, her tummyache having subsided (for good, John hoped).

He stepped under the spray with his daughter, soaping and rinsing them both thoroughly before shutting off the water and towelling them dry. John wrinkled his nose. The bathroom reeked of vomit from their discarded clothing, and judging by Sherlock’s earlier reaction, it would be best if the odour wasn’t allowed to linger. He wrapped a towel around his waist, then bundled Rosie in her own towel and set her down on the mat, giving her one of her bath toys. “Stay right there, love, while I take care of this, okay?” Rosie nodded and focused on her rubber ducky. John took a bin liner from the bathroom cupboard and bundled their discarded clothing into it, knotting it tightly. He’d take care of the washing later. He exited the bathroom, carrying Rosie and the bag in one hand and spraying some room deodorizer in their wake with the other.

Rosie was drowsy now, head lolling on his shoulder. “Time for bed, I think, hmm?” She nodded, eyelids drooping. He took her up to her room and laid her down, applying a nappy with the ease of long practice before bundling her into her softest sleepsuit and laying her gently in her cot. She was asleep within moments. He checked for fever once more, then stroked her blond curls before bending down to kiss her cheek. He tucked her favourite soft blanket and stuffed bee in with her, turned on the baby monitor, and left the room.

When he got back downstairs, he was surprised to find the flat deserted. Sherlock had apparently gone out at some point, possibly while he and Rosie had been upstairs. John frowned and went to retrieve his mobile.

**Sherlock?**

No response.

**Sherlock, where are you?**

No response. John felt his anger rising. He had thought they were past this sort of thing. Fine, then. He would figure this out himself. _You know my methods, John. Apply them,_ Sherlock's voice said in his head. "Bloody right I will," John muttered to himself. He took a moment to dress, and began his search.

A few minutes later, he tried again.

**Sherlock, you can’t just run off without telling me where you’re going.  
We talked about this!**

Finally, an answer came back: _Bart’s. Experiment needs checking. SH_

 _Bloody convenient, that,_ John thought.

 **I'm not going to take the piss, you know.** **We all have things we can’t help.**

_Even you?_

**No, even you.**

Again, radio silence.

**We promised each other we wouldn’t do this, remember?  
Running off instead of talking?**

**Bloody hell, Sherlock. This is not a big deal.**

_If it’s not a big deal, then surely it can wait until this experiment is concluded. SH_

**What happened isn’t a big deal, no. But your refusal to talk to me about it is. You promised. We both did.**

_Fine. I’ll be home in 10 minutes. SH_

Sherlock was true to his word, and ten minutes later, John heard the front door open and listened to Sherlock's slow tread as he ascended the stairs. The door to the flat opened and John immediately went to him. He put a hand to his lover’s cheek. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” the detective said airily. "Although my experiment will have to be scrapped now, thanks to you and your insistence on summoning me here to talk about trivialities. I had to abandon it at a critical juncture."

"Oh, sod your bloody experiment!" John growled. He kept his voice down, not wanting to wake Rosie. He glared and crossed his arms. "I didn't know where you were, Sherlock. We agreed, you don't run off, I don't storm out, and we don't do radio silence. How many times have we got into trouble doing that?" He waited for Sherlock's response, knowing how this would go. _Next volley of bullshit in 3...2...1..._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, now you're angry with me. How delightful. No deduction needed. All the classic signs are there. The tight jaw, the clenched fists, even the dangerous little smile, always a nice touch." The detective raised his hands in mock joy. "Ooh, maybe there'll be a patented John Watson _rage sniff,_ and my night will be complete!"

John bit his lip and made a conscious effort to unclench his fists. "Sherlock, stop it, or so help me—"

The detective raised his eyebrows. "Or what, John? You'll hit me? Shall we take bets on how long I'll be in hospital this time?"

" _Jesus,_ Sherlock!" John breathed. He felt like he'd taken a punch himself, straight to the bollocks. He sat down hard on the sofa, looking gutted. "I was _worried_ about you, you bloody knob," he said softly. "I know you were sick into the kitchen bin, okay?"

"How did you—"

John looked up at him for a moment, then took a breath and launched into rapid-fire speech. "There's a fresh liner in, but I know the bin was nearly empty when I left for work this morning. We don't normally generate enough rubbish in one day to fill the entire bin, so it must have been emptied before it got completely full. And not just emptied, but the bag taken out to the bins. You were the only one here all day, and you _never_ take the bag out to the bins, but you did this time. Why? Because there was something in there you didn't want me to see. Might be the remains of some toxic experiment, but you never cared if I saw those before, and besides, you don't do that now that we have Rosie, so not an experiment. Could have been a failed cooking attempt, but again, you wouldn't care if I saw, and even if it had been that, you would have changed the liner and left the old bag for someone else to take out, like you usually do. But in this case you didn't. The missing bin liner, coupled with your reaction to Rosie being sick and your disappearance while I was occupied with her, all point strongly to the only explanation for all the facts: you chundered into the kitchen bin and were so ashamed of it you slunk out to hide the evidence while my back was turned, and then fled the scene."

Sherlock stared down at him, mouth agape. "Is that really what I sound like when I'm deducing?"

"I don't know, did I sound like a hyperactive prat who thinks he knows everything?"

"...a bit, yeah."

"Then yes, that's what you sound like when you're deducing."

Sherlock looked away. "I suppose I deserved that."

"Sherlock...all I wanted was to be sure you were all right. When you didn't answer my texts, I got worried."

Sherlock's features flooded with shame. "John...I'm sorry. I didn't want to talk about it, so I provoked you--"

"As a distraction, I know." John blew out an exasperated breath and rubbed his hands over his face. “Christ, this has been a long bloody day. Look, love, it’s really okay. You fucked up, I fucked up, we're both certified wankers. Now please, come here, sit down, and _talk to me_.”

Sherlock nodded, turning to hang his Belstaff on the door hook, and seated himself next to John on the sofa. They looked wordlessly into one another's eyes. John reached for Sherlock's hand and laced their fingers together.

“You were thinking...what, that I’d take the piss over you being squeamish about vomit? That I’d make wisecracks about how the world’s only consulting detective can visit the gruesomest crime scenes without turning a hair but can’t handle a spewing toddler? I wouldn't, you know."

Sherlock looked away. "It's a weakness, John, and I hate it."

"But it's perfectly normal." Sherlock's face did the same thing Mycroft's did at the mention of legwork. "Oh, come on. 'Normal' is not an evil word. I have things that get to me, too.”

Sherlock fixed him with an intense gaze, then, scanning John’s features. John smiled despite himself. “Yeah, stop that now. You don't need to deduce me because you already know the answer. Work it out, genius.”

Sherlock’s eyes did that side-to-side thing that meant he was going through the known facts like a thief ransacking a room, tossing the worthless bits to left and right before pouncing on the prize. In all the years he had known John prior to their becoming lovers, he had never seen the doctor put off by anything at all. Since they had become lovers, though—

“Oh!” said Sherlock. “You can’t swallow.”

“Got it in one. I want to swallow—God, how I want to, especially with you—but that raw-egg consistency gets me every time. The first time it happened was an accident. On my part, anyway. The bloke I was with thought it would be funny not to warn me and came down my throat. He didn't find it so amusing when I spewed up all over his dick."

"Serves him right for not warning you," said Sherlock.

"You could say he got his comeuppance," John quipped. Sherlock grinned.

"Anyway, after that, I did some experiments," John went on. "I became quite the expert at giving myself facials—" he broke off as Sherlock's breath hitched at the mental image "—so I could try swallowing my own, just to see, but nothing ever changed. It would just come right back up along with whatever I had last eaten. Bit of a mood killer, that.”

“Yes, that would be rather off-putting. Although I understand that vomit can be a fetish for some—” he broke off as John abruptly blushed scarlet. “Oh!” he exclaimed again, softer this time. “Do you—”

“Nnyy...well—maybe—erm, not really sure,” John mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and fighting the urge to squirm. “It’s...something I’ve never really explored, but I had an...experience, I guess you could say...once, a long time ago, and...”

Sherlock squeezed John's hand. “Tell me, John. Whatever it is, it’s all fine.”

John smiled at the echo of his own words and the memory of their first night together, then cleared his throat. “Okay, well, it was back when I was at uni. I had this rugby mate, and we used to fool around together sometimes. You know, after a match, we’d have the obligatory few pints or some plonk, and then he and I would always somehow mysteriously wind up alone together, sometimes at his, sometimes at mine, and...well...” John trailed off with a sheepish smile.

“Looking back, it’s pretty clear we were both bi but so far in the closet you could smell the mothballs. Adrenaline and alcohol were the perfect excuse for getting it on. I mean, we could get off with another bloke, blame it on the booze, and then go back to our regular lives as firmly heterosexual males.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“Yeah, I know, you berk,” said John. “It was stage IV Head-In-Arse Syndrome, okay? But I’m cured now, Dr. Holmes.” He planted a quick kiss on the detective’s lips and went on with his story.

“Anyway, this one time, my mate had had a bit more than usual and he decided he was going to suck me off. It was my first jobby from a bloke. And we were both enjoying it quite a lot. I'm not sure exactly what happened, if I bucked my hips at the wrong time or he got overenthusiastic and took me in too far, but next thing I know, he pulls off, doubles over, and starts spewing up all over my bedroom floor.”

“What did you do?”

“Took care of him, of course. Gave him my bin to finish in, then fetched a glass of water. When that started coming back up, I helped him to the loo and stayed with him to make sure he was okay. Then I made him up a bed on my sofa with the bin nearby. Made sure he was turned on his side, like a good future doctor should, and left him to sleep it off. And then cleaned up my bedroom, of course.”

Sherlock shifted where he sat. “But...?”

“Well, after all that was done, I realized I was still half hard. I started thinking about how one minute he was sucking me off and the next he was vomiting everywhere, and there was just something about it. Not the vomit itself, but more the act of vomiting. The suddenness of it, the violence of the expulsion, the helplessness. It was almost like ejaculation, you know? Spasm, ejection, relief. Not something you can fake, or control. When it’s going to happen, it's coming and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. And the more I thought about that, the harder I got. Eventually I got myself off thinking about it. When morning rolled around, I went back to my true identity as John Hetero Watson.”

That earned a small snort from Sherlock. “And all this time I thought the H. stood for Hamish. Who falsified your birth certificate, then?”

“You’re not the only one who leads a life of mystery, mate.” John laughed quietly as Sherlock snickered. John sobered. "I wasn't kidding, though, about going back to my hetero identity. I made a conscious choice not to think about it anymore. I didn't want to, to be honest, because if I did, I might have to examine what all this said about me. I bundled the whole experience up along with my homoerotic urges and shoved the lot back into that sodding closet. With you I've been able to explore and accept my bisexuality, but I had forgotten about the kink part of it until earlier tonight, when I saw you standing against the wall with your hand over your mouth. Then it all came back to me. I’ve seen you being sick before, of course, but we weren’t lovers then. I could go into doctor mode. But this time was different. The two ideas came together.”

Sherlock hummed, looking away. He ran his fingers lightly over the inside of John's wrist. "After you took Rosie into the bathroom, I knew I was going to be sick but I didn't want you to hear. I managed to hold on until I heard the shower start up, and then I scrambled for the kitchen bin and vomited until my throat was raw." He went a bit green about the gills at the memory. "I switched out the liner and went downstairs to put the bag in the bins, and had to throw up again outside." John's pulse jumped under his fingers. He gave his blogger a considering look. “We’ve explored some of our kinks together, John. You've indulged my praise kink and my military kink—” A lovely pink flush began stealing its way up the detective’s neck. He lowered his voice to a baritone purr. “And we’ve quite thoroughly mapped your _voice kink_ —” he smirked as John's breath hitched and he shifted minutely to accommodate his growing erection. “—so maybe it’s time we explore this one, as well, hmm?”

“You would do that? I mean, if the sight of vomit makes you sick—”

“Not the sight, no. Nor the sound, either. It’s the smell of fresh vomit. Sets me off every time. I’ve tried to delete it, even tried to desensitize myself, to no avail. One whiff and my transport begins retching of its own accord. It’s really quite irritating. But...there was one aspect of your uni experience that I found quite erotic.”

“Really?” asked John. It was his turn to fix Sherlock with a piercing gaze. “Couldn’t have been the actual vomit, and there’s nothing inherently kinky about a blow job, so it was...” It came to him. “Ah, the care. I took care of my friend. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Sherlock shifted again, and John realized he had been hard all this time. “Got it in one, John. Well done. I really have been rubbing off on you."

"Well, only after Rosie's in bed."

Sherlock smiled at John's cheeky grin. "Even before we became lovers, I found your care of me arousing. I confess I sometimes engineered minor injuries so you would have to tend to me.”

“Yeah, I had worked that one out for myself, ta very much. Couldn’t imagine, at first, how someone with your natural grace could be so clumsy. Then I realized you liked it when I touched you. And I liked it, too. Not as much as the kind of touching we do now, mind you, but still. I had to toss off more than once after stitching you up.”

Sherlock grinned. "Me, too. After the Chandler case, when you bandaged that cut to my inner thigh—"

"Christ, Sherlock, I thought my cock was going to punch a hole through my trousers. I was right down there between your legs—"

"Why do you think I insisted on holding a bunched-up towel to the area?" asked Sherlock. "Afterward, did you—"

"God, yes. Furiously, and more than once. You?"

Sherlock's mouth made that adorable little twist it got when he was embarrassed. "I was so aroused I came almost as soon as you left the room. Couple of thrusts into the towel and Bob's your uncle. Waited until my refractory period ended and had a proper wank, then another after that. That towel was never the same again. The sight of you looking up at me from between my legs...God, I couldn't get the image out of my head. That was wank fodder for months."

Both men were half hard at the thought. “For me, too," John admitted. "God, we really are idiots, aren't we? All that time spent lonely wanking when we could have been getting off together like we do now.”

Sherlock hummed. "And we've got quite good at it, haven't we?"

"God, yes. You're a genius in the bedroom, too."

"I've had a brilliant teacher. You've helped me discover a whole new side of myself, John. And I want to return the favour, by exploring this with you."

"If you're sure—"

"I am."

“Well, then, I have an idea. I’ll lay it all out for you and you can tell me what you think. I have a feeling that if we’re in agreement on this, the little scenario I'm thinking of could make us both...very happy.”

"Mmm," Sherlock purred. "I can't wait to hear what you have in mind. But I think I may need your immediate attention, Doctor. Possible case of priapism. Could be dangerous." He bent forward and John's lips eagerly met his in a sloppy, heated kiss. John groaned and thrust his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, breath hot and wet.

"Priapism?" panted John. "That's a medical emergency. I'll need to examine the area." He placed a hand on Sherlock's bulge. "Oh, yes, definite tumescence." He squeezed and Sherlock's breath caught. "Tenderness on palpation. Hmm. I'll need to remove your trousers and pants. They're constricting blood flow to the organ."

"Yes, Doctor," Sherlock gasped as John deftly opened his trousers. He lifted up off the sofa and John slid his clothes down. His prick sprang free, already hard and leaking. John grasped it in one clever hand.

"What— _hnnng_ —further treatment do you recommend, Doctor?" asked the detective.

"Standard protocol in these cases is to apply friction until the condition resolves spontaneously. This can take quite some time, and treatment can be—"

"Oh _God_ Johndon'tstop—"

"—intensive. In this case, though, the condition appears to be contagious." He stood and fumbled with his own trousers, pushing everything down and off. Sherlock's mouth watered as John's cock bobbed at eye level, a drop of precome beading in the slit. John lowered himself down onto the sofa, straddling the detective. They both groaned as their pricks touched. "As you can see, I'm beginning to feel quite ill myself." He rutted against Sherlock's dick, panting.

"I think we need a bed in the intensive treatment unit, Doctor," the detective rasped. "My condition is becoming critical."

John ran a hand into Sherlock's curls and crushed his mouth to Sherlock's, then drew back to admire the taller man's swollen lips and darkened eyes. _God_ , he was beautiful. "We need a bed, definitely, before matters— _ohhh_ , God, do that again—come to a head...so to speak. Bed, stat!"


	2. Catharsis

It took several weeks for the stars to align—Rosie staying with friends, Mrs. Hudson away for the evening, no cases on, and a nice dinner of takeaway under their belts. They had taken care to order food they weren’t overly fond of so that tonight’s experience wouldn’t put them off a favourite. Neither of them was especially keen on tagine, so it wouldn’t be a shame if it ultimately went to waste. They had been sure to wash it down with plenty of water, as well.

Sherlock and John turned off their mobiles and sat together on the sofa, snogging languidly. When the kissing became heated, John broke off the embrace, whispering in Sherlock’s ear. The detective nodded and John disappeared into their bedroom.

He reached under the bed and brought out the supplies he had stashed there weeks ago in preparation for this moment. First he stripped the bedding off and put a waterproof sheet on the bare mattress. Next came an old comforter, a couple of ratty pillows from John’s old room, and a soft but threadbare blanket that John folded and laid at the head of the bed. He placed two tall glasses of water on the nightstand, along with a few dampened flannels, some old towels, and a large glass mixing bowl from their kitchen. He arranged some candles on the dresser and placed the matches nearby, leaving the candles unlit for the moment. Next, John stripped naked and called Sherlock in.

The detective entered, running his eyes appreciatively over John’s form before taking stock of the preparations. He nodded. All was as they had agreed. He shrugged off his suit jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt, unable to hide the shaking of his hands. John took in his pallor and trembling and stepped closer, steadying his lover’s hands with his own. He cocked his head and asked softly, “Are you sure about this, love? You’re shaking.”

“It's nerves,” said Sherlock. “I...knowing what we're about to do, just thinking about it—" he swallowed. "I already feel like I'm going to—”

“Hey, hey...if you don’t want to do this, we can stop. It's perfectly okay. Either of us can stop this at any time. We said.”

Sherlock swallowed hard and pressed their foreheads together. “I know, John. I don’t want to stop. I want to do this with you. Like I said, it's just nerves. Help me get undressed?”

John did as he was asked. “Lie down with me,” he said when Sherlock stood bare before him, and they stretched out together on the bed.

John drew Sherlock close and they simply held each other, breathing and drawing comfort. When they began kissing, it was with a passion born of nerves, both of them keyed up in anticipation of what they were about to do.

John pressed sloppy kisses along Sherlock’s jawline and down that endless porcelain neck, licking and laving down his chest until he reached a nipple. He nibbled and sucked the pink bud, eliciting gasps and moans from his lover, then continued downward, cupping a hand around Sherlock’s balls before flicking his tongue out to taste the tip of his engorged cock. “Mmmm...God, so good.” He ran his tongue around the head, then dipped it into Sherlock’s slit and swirled, extracting more hisses and moans. “You want me to suck you, hmm? Suck this huge, hard cock of yours?”

“Ye-yes! Oh, Jesus, John, yes!”

“Sit up against the headboard, then, love. I want to do this properly.” Sherlock did as he asked, leaning back against the pillows and spreading his legs, cock jutting up obscenely between them. John knelt before him. He gave the nightstand one final check, just to be sure, and then paused, looking his lover straight in the eyes. "I'm going to ask one last time: are you sure about this? Because we both know what's going to happen once I—"

The trust shining from Sherlock's eyes took John's breath away. "I know, John. And I know that whatever happens, you'll take care of me."

"I will. I always will, I promise. Now, when the time comes, when you're there, don't hold back. I am going to make you come hard, and I want it all, straight down my throat."

Sherlock's breath caught and his cock twitched, hardening still further. The detective's eyes went dark with desire. He gave a wordless nod, and John grinned. He bent forward and got down to business, closing his lips around the taller man's cock. Sherlock gave a strangled cry and grabbed fistfuls of comforter as John swallowed him down to the root.

John pulled off and looked up at the other man. “You don’t have to be quiet,” John reminded him. “We have the house to ourselves tonight." A wicked grin spread over his features. "And I have every intention of making you scream.” John applied his full focus to doing just that. The universe narrowed down to this moment, this room, to his mouth on Sherlock’s cock, sucking, squeezing, humming around the steel-hard shaft. By agreement, there would be no penetration tonight, but John had plenty of other tricks up his sleeve, including a little something he had learned from a particularly talented girlfriend. He had been saving it for a special occasion.

As he licked and sucked and slowly took his lover apart, he let his saliva drip down around Sherlock’s cock, cupping one hand to collect a pool of it. He drove his lover relentlessly to the very edge, and when Sherlock’s moans hit the pitch that meant his climax was imminent, John did two things simultaneously: he pressed two fingers into Sherlock’s perineum, just behind his bollocks, and spilled the collected saliva onto the head of Sherlock’s cock with his other hand.

Putting his lips down to the tip, he gave a sudden suck and slurped the saliva up noisily. At the unexpected sensation, Sherlock gave a wordless shout and came instantly. John was expecting that—it had had the same effect on him—and he closed his lips around Sherlock's bell end as the detective groaned his name and spilled again and again into his mouth. John swallowed every drop down. His gorge rose as a particularly forceful spurt struck the back of his throat, but he forced it down and concentrated on milking every last drop out of Sherlock.

At last the detective went boneless against the pillows, head lolling and eyes rolling back. He may have mumbled something that sounded like _sweet buggering Christ,_ but John couldn’t be sure. His attention was swiftly being diverted to his stomach and the warning gurgles it was emitting. He gagged but held out, determined to let Sherlock enjoy the endorphins for at least a few moments. This next bit was bound to spoil the afterglow.

He moved to the edge of the bed and sat up straight to use gravity to his advantage. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. A wave of nausea rolled over him but he breathed through it, wiping his flooding mouth with one hand. Deep breath in, slow breath out. Maybe he could do this. He tried to swallow back some of the saliva pooling in his mouth, and that was his undoing. As his epiglottis closed, he could feel the glutinous ejaculate in the back of his throat. His stomach did a sickening forward roll, and he knew there would be no stopping what was going to happen next.

John gagged. “Oh, God,” he said in a hiccupy voice. Sherlock's eyes opened. “Sherlock—I’m sorry, but I have to—” He gagged again, snatching the bowl off the nightstand and clutching it to his chest. His lips parted of their own accord and excess saliva dripped into the bowl as his abdominals began clenching. His body took an involuntary deep breath and then he retched once, the sound raw and loud. He gagged up a mouthful of slimy come mixed with stomach acid, and that was it: his gag reflex took over and then he was vomiting convulsively into the bowl. The smell of half-digested tagine filled the room, and that just set him off again, harder and heavier. A jet of vomit overshot the bowl and made a splattering sound as it hit the floor. "Oh, shit," John managed. He was dimly aware of Sherlock gagging, but he was unable to pay much heed as the retching overtook him anew. With a few more surges, he lost the last of his dinner into the bowl.

Sherlock had scrambled into a kneeling position, one hand clapped over his mouth and the other clenching the headboard in a white-knuckled grip. The room was suddenly far too warm. His stomach flipped as he watched John spewing. He cursed his observational skills, wishing he could switch them off in situations like this. He would happily have remained oblivious to the way the first splash of John's vomit was smaller than the rest, but the second set up a swirling motion in the bowl. The third, bolstered by John's own revulsion at the smell, came up with a guttural rasp and was so forceful that it bypassed the bowl entirely and struck the floor at a distance of 72 centimetres from the bed. John gave a hoarse curse before ducking his head and vomiting into the bowl again. There were five more surges, each wringing little helpless groans from John as it passed. John's face was wet with tears, eyes crinkling shut and neck muscles standing out like cords with the strain as he threw up again and again.

It was the projectile vomiting that nearly sent Sherlock over the edge. He could make out bits of acid-curdled vegetables and chunks of lamb splattered over the floor, and worse than that, he could _smell_ it. His stomach was making sickening swoops inside him and he knew he couldn't last much longer. He choked the vomit back when really what he longed to do was bend over the side of the bed, match John heave for heave, and empty his stomach across the floor. A cold sweat broke out over his body as his guts churned, demanding release  _now_. He gagged forcefully, then clapped his hand back over his mouth. The detached, scientific part of his mind noted with some interest that he could feel his stomach contents begin sweeping up into his oesophagus. But while the scientist in him was busy cataloguing the experience and its related sensations, the bigger part of him just wanted to throw up. The sour taste of vomit filled his mouth, but still he choked it back, wanting to wait until John was done. The whole point of this was for John to be able to watch, after all, but he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hold out. He coughed and gagged and clutched the headboard, trying not to breathe.

John retched one last time, then spat into the bowl. “I’m sorry,” he said thickly. He reached for a flannel and wiped his face. “I’ll just get rid of this—” but he didn’t have time to finish before Sherlock was grabbing the bowl from him and hunching over it, cheeks already filling. With a gurgling retch, he brought up the first chunky splash of tagine. Stomach acid's effect on the taste of lamb was a discovery he could have done without. His stomach seemed to turn inside out, and he spewed uncontrollably into the bowl.

John moved forward, putting a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder, the other helping to steady the bowl. "It's okay, love," he said. "Let it all out, I've got you."

And God, it felt so good to finally stop fighting and just spew everything up as he'd been longing to do. Sherlock let John hold the bowl as he hunched over it, vomiting harder than he could ever recall doing in his life. He opened his throat to the surges, retching as his stomach convulsed, emptying himself in great gushes that joined John's sick in the bowl. He had been holding back for so long that now it seemed to come up from his very toes. The bowl was overflowing and sick was dripping out onto his legs, but still the waves of vomit came out of him. All of it was beyond his control now. Sherlock vomited until he had nothing left to give, and the dry heaving went on for some time after that. Once it was all done, he was left exhausted and shaking, his face slick with tears. John put the bowl down on the floor, reaching for an unused flannel and wiping the moisture and sweat from his lover’s face. He ignored his own raging erection and smoothed Sherlock’s curls back from his forehead. The shuddering detective slumped forward against him, face ashen and one arm weakly encircling his own aching midsection.

“I’m so sorry, love,” John said with his mouth in Sherlock's hair. “I didn’t know you'd get so sick. That must have hurt.” Sherlock nodded wordlessly. John kissed his forehead. "Do you need to be sick again?" Sherlock shook his head. John reached for the glass on the bedside table. “Here, drink some water, it’ll get the taste out of your mouth.” He held the glass and Sherlock gulped it all down thirstily. “There you go, love. Lie back now and let me clean you up. Then I'll get rid of the bowl and I’ll see what I can do about the smell.”

John cleaned his lover gently with a flannel before unfolding the blanket and tucking it around Sherlock's shaking form. He used a towel to clean the puddle of his own vomit off the floor, then took it and the brimming bowl into the bathroom, emptying the latter into the toilet. His gorge rose again at the smell as the former tagine went splattering into the water. His erection began to flag and he let it. He rinsed the bowl into the toilet as well, then flushed, and rinsed his mouth with water from the tap. He gargled a bit, which proved to be a mistake when his gag reflex kicked in and he ended up spraying the water back into the basin with a loud retch. Clearly his stomach was still on a hair trigger. He braced himself over the basin for a moment, stomach roiling and mouth flooding. He gagged, bringing up a thin stream of brown liquid that vanished down the drain. His stomach flipped and he threw up again, more this time. He spat into the sink and retched again, but nothing more came up. He gave his mouth another rinse.

There was a gagging sound from the bedroom and Sherlock called "John—!” with a note of urgency in his voice. John snapped out of it and hurried back in, all thought of his own nausea forgotten. Sherlock needed his care. The detective was curled on his side under the blanket, pale and shaking. He was holding a hand over his mouth as his shoulders hitched. "John, I need to throw up agai—" He broke off, speech dissolving into a rasping gag. John quickly moved to the bed, kneeling down and placing a hand on his lover's shoulder.

"It's okay, love. I just threw up again, too. If you need to, just let it go. It won't be much, and I'll clean it up. It's okay." Sherlock nodded, then lurched forward and threw up over the side of the bed. Two waves of watery vomit cascaded out onto the floor and then, after a moment, a third. John moved back slightly but kept a gentle hand on Sherlock's back as he heaved. A bit of vomit struck John's leg and he gasped with astonishment as the sensation made him instantly hard, leaving him lightheaded from the sudden change in blood flow. Still, he kept his focus on caring for his lover. 

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock slurred when it was over.

John stroked his lover's face. "Shhh, shhh, it's okay, love, it's all fine. You know this sort of thing doesn't bother me. Rather the reverse, apparently. But I just want to make sure you're okay. Do you want some more water?" Sherlock nodded and John held the glass for him. As before, the detective swallowed it all down. He flopped back down onto the mattress with a groan, one hand still on his abdomen. John placed a gentle kiss on his forehead as he covered him with the blanket before using another towel to clean the floor. He gave himself a second quick wash in the bathroom, then returned to the bedroom to open the window a crack and light the scented candles he had placed on the dresser. He had purposely chosen a light scent that would clear the air without being overpowering.

"That should help with the smell," he said. He returned to the bed and climbed in, lying down behind Sherlock and caressing his cheek. The detective was pallid, his eyes reddened. “Are you okay, love? That was...more intense than I expected.”

Sherlock nodded. His voice was hoarse. “Still queasy, but I’ll be fine, John.” He closed his eyes as John’s hand stroked his forehead and smoothed back his unruly curls. He gave a low groan of appreciation. “This part makes it all worthwhile.” John pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, then crowded close behind him until he was spooning the taller man. He pulled the unoccupied half of the comforter over them both, cocooning them in soft warmth, and took Sherlock into his arms.

“I’m here, love,” John murmured. “I’ll take care of you.”

“I know, John. You always do.”

Gradually Sherlock’s shakes subsided and their stomachs settled, and it wasn’t long before John's proximity to a very naked consulting detective brought his neglected arousal back to the fore. His cock stirred, nudging at Sherlock’s arse.

Sherlock gave an appreciative groan and turned. “Do you want me to—”

John pushed the comforter off and sat up, then knelt next to his friend. “No, you’ve done more than enough, love. I think I can handle this.” He reached into the nightstand drawer for the lube they kept there and smeared a generous dollop onto his fingers before taking himself in hand. He moved down to the foot of the bed and knelt there to give Sherlock the best view. The detective pushed the blanket aside and propped himself up on his elbows, pupils dilating as he watched. Heat pooled in his groin. The sight of John pulling himself off had always been a major turn-on for him—so much so that on one memorable occasion, he'd been able to climax untouched purely from the visual input. Now his cock twitched and began filling out, and John gave a low groan at the sight.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” Sherlock reminded him, and John responded by groaning with each stroke. He rarely allowed himself to be as vocal as he wanted, but tonight was different. He ran his thumb over his bell end and gave a gasping moan.

Sherlock groaned low in his throat. “Mmm, John. Oh, God, yes, stroke your cock. You know I love it. You're making me hard just watching you. Did you like it when I threw up? Seeing me spew like that? I saw how you got hard when I vomited on you.” He couldn't help gagging a bit at the memory. John gasped, fist flying faster over his shaft, and he groaned again, louder. God, that _voice_.

"Yeah, I liked it," John rasped. "You know I did. It made me so hard **—** oh, _fuck_ **—** " He stroked his cock, free hand coming down to tug at his throbbing bollocks. He closed his eyes, mentally replaying the sight of Sherlock spewing out gushes of vomit and reliving the sensation of hot puke splattering onto his own thigh. Although unplanned, that occurrence had proved unexpectedly arousing.

Sherlock lowered his voice to a whisper. “Want to see me do it again?” he asked. John's eyes flew open in shock. Sherlock pushed the blanket up onto his pillow, then reached under it and withdrew one of the flannels they’d used earlier. John could see it was brown with the sick he'd cleaned off Sherlock's legs. His breath stuttered as Sherlock met his eyes, slowly and deliberately bringing the cloth up to his nose. He sniffed deeply, and the reaction was instantaneous. He jackknifed into a sitting position, abdominals spasming, and threw up. The water he’d drunk struck the comforter beside him with a muted splatter. “Can’t help it,” he choked out, head ducking as he vomited onto the bed again. He gasped and wiped his mouth with one hand, eyes streaming.

John’s thrusts were frenetic, his face scarlet. Squelching noises filled the room as he fucked his slicked fist. “ _Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, oh, God_ ,” he chanted in high, desperate little moans.

"The smell, John," Sherlock said thickly. "Oh, God, I'm going to be sick again!" All at once his abdominals gave a vicious clench. His head whiplashed, stomach emptying with such force that John narrowly missed being splattered in vomit a second time. Sherlock wiped his tears away. He pressed the back of one hand to his mouth and said hoarsely, “Now, come for me, John. I want to see you come.”

John threw his head back and keened as his orgasm rocketed through him. He knew it wasn't physically possible to ejaculate all the way from his toes, but that was exactly what it felt like as he went off with the force of a hand grenade. Sherlock watched avidly, cock pulsing as he unconsciously thrust his hips in time with John's ejaculation. He had seen John come many times, but not like this: ribbon after ribbon of hot come pulsed out of him, corkscrewing through the air before splattering across the bed. Sherlock counted an incredible 21 spurts before it finally ended and John collapsed onto his side, panting and trembling with the aftershocks. Sherlock was flushed and sweating, so aroused by watching John climax that he was unaware just how close he himself was to doing the same. His hand grazed his engorged cock and he hissed, realization hitting with a jolt. "Oh...God. Oh, God, I'm going to come!" he cried, then threw his head back, mouth opening in a soundless cry as he ejaculated, untouched, all over himself. When it was done he fell back onto the pillows, gasping for breath and utterly spent. 

John was in much the same state; it seemed to take him an age to catch his breath. “Oh, my God,” he finally managed once his heart rate had descended from the stratosphere. “That was...the hardest I've ever come in my life. No question.” His motor control had gone all wonky and everything below the belt was refusing to obey orders. Sherlock used the blanket to swipe his stomach clean, then unfolded it, clean side up, and laid it over the mess on the mattress. He helped John lie down next to him.

Sherlock hooked an arm around his doctor and drew him close. John looked up at him with naked adoration in his eyes. “You made yourself sick...again...for me. I can’t believe you did that.”

Sherlock put a hand to John’s cheek. “I would do anything for you, John.”

“I know,” John said, choking up. “And you have done, so many times. What I don’t understand is why." Mycroft's voice spoke in his head: _...a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another._ "What in God's name do you see in me? I mean, look at you: posh, clever, beautiful. You could have anyone you want, male or female. You’re out of my league in every possible way. What did I ever do to deserve your love?”

“You’re what I need, John. Your mind, your body, your heart, just...you. Every part of you fills an empty space in me. I need you, John Watson. And I love you even more than I need you.”

John simply clung to him then, tears slipping silently from his eyes, and Sherlock held him close, running a hand through his blogger’s hair and kissing his forehead.

 _This precious man,_ John thought. _To think there was a time when I believed he was incapable of love._ He blushed with shame at the thought.

“It’s not your fault that you believed that, John,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled in his ear. “I wanted you to. I wanted everyone to. I thought it was the only way to keep from being hurt. I didn't know I could have this. I didn't know I was _capable_ of this. But you showed me I was. You showed me how to be a better version of myself. You showed me my heart, and then you gave me yours. What did _I_ ever do to deserve _that?_ ”

John raised his head and caught his breath. Sherlock's eyes were glowing apple green in the candlelight. “You have the biggest heart of anyone I know. I'm sorry it took me so long to see your heart, and to understand what was in mine. Thank you, love. Not just for tonight, but for everything. For waiting for me.” His voice broke. “I need every part of you, too, you know.”

Sherlock's eyes were brimming with tears. " _John_ ," he said simply, and John tucked his head into Sherlock's neck and they held each other close for a long time.

When eventually they stirred again, they brought their lips together in a kiss, but both drew away with a grimace.

“Ugh,” said John. “Chunder breath. Should have added mouthwash to the supplies.”

Sherlock hummed. “Maybe we should keep that in mind for next time.”

John turned thoughtful. “I don’t think there will be a next time. This, here, with you, tonight...it was perfect. I honestly didn’t know if I could go through with it or if I would even find it arousing if we did. And I definitely didn’t expect to be so emotional afterward.”

“Catharsis,” said Sherlock, “in every sense of the word.”

“Yeah, it was. I don’t think we could ever match the intensity of this, let alone top it, and I don’t even want to try. I want to keep the memory of this just as it is.”

“All right,” said the detective with a nod.

“And more importantly,” John continued, “I don’t ever want to make you sick like that again. It was too much, and knowing I was the cause of it...I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I've done enough of that for a lifetime.”

“But if I do get sick, from other causes...you’ll still take care of me?” Sherlock asked. There was naked vulnerability in his eyes, even though his heart knew the answer already.

“Always,” said John, his eyes soft. He drew a thumb across one of those magnificent cheekbones. “Always.” He smiled. “Want to shower first while I clean up and change the bedding?”

“Okay.” Sherlock rose, wobbling on his feet for a moment. John went over to him, offering a steadying hand.

“You all right?”

“Of course, John. Motor functions are coming back online as we speak.”

John laughed, shaking his head fondly. “I love you, you madman.”

John was careful, after that, to spare Sherlock from dealing with any of the stomach bugs Rosie inevitably brought home from nursery, and if he or Mrs. Hudson happened to be ill, he assigned Sherlock to provide logistical support from a distance while dealing with the messy bits himself. He couldn't prevent all exposure, of course—there were occasional surprise pukes from Rosie that would send Sherlock sprinting for the loo, and one memorable chase where a suspect landed a lucky punch to the Watson family jewels, with predictable results, and Sherlock took the man down before vomiting all over him—but he shielded his lover from the worst of it and didn't breathe a word of Sherlock's aversion to anyone.

Sherlock, for his part, always alerted John to even the mildest sign of nausea, to ensure they would have time to get home. Once there, he would give in to the urge to vomit because he wanted John to be able to watch, knowing full well his blogger would be hard in his trousers even as he was holding Sherlock's head over the bowl. Eventually just the sound of Sherlock gagging became enough to make John instantly hard, and he learned to come running when Sherlock said, "John—!" in that tight tone that meant he was about to be sick. John felt no guilt about his arousal at these times, because he knew that Sherlock encouraged it, and that once his lover was feeling better, they would both be getting off as they relived the experience.

As their relationship deepened, the sickness/ comfort/arousal dynamic became ingrained. And because the episodes were so sporadic (Sherlock rarely fell ill in the first place and vomited even more seldom), their very unpredictability meant that the novelty never wore off. It became their secret pleasure.

Sherlock discovered, quite by chance, that the fried chicken from a nearby eatery never sat well with him and could be counted on to make a messy reappearance some hours later. If he occasionally used this to his advantage when the yearning for John's care overcame him, he kept that fact to himself. If John, in his turn, wondered why Sherlock persisted in eating a dish his body clearly considered indigestible, he kept mum about his deductions on this point, as well. He simply gave his mad genius all the tender care of which he was capable, and he and Sherlock went on needing and loving one another and filling up each other's empty spaces.


	3. Bored and Horny

John heaved a sigh of relief as his hotel room door closed behind him. This week-long medical conference in Edinburgh had seemed like a good idea when he had signed up for it several months ago, but four days in, the monotone lectures and unrelenting cold rain had him climbing the walls with boredom. Sherlock was home in London with Rosie, and John missed his loves. They Skyped nightly, but even seeing their faces was no substitute for being there with them, for playing with and taking care of Rosie, and for spending time with Sherlock. Running around on cases, snuggling on the sofa, snogging or doing...other things...in bed... John suddenly felt a bit hot under the collar. Bored and horny was a dangerous combination, he knew.

Right on schedule, his phone lit up with an incoming video call. He swiped to accept it. Sherlock and Rosie's faces filled the screen. They were sitting at the kitchen table, Rosie in Sherlock's lap. “Daddy!” the toddler screeched as she caught sight of John.

“Hello, my little love,” said John, grinning. “How's my girl?”

Rosie launched into enthusiastic babbling, most of which was still unintelligible. Apparently she had had quite the exciting day. When she was done telling him all about it, she immediately began squirming for Sherlock to let her down. The detective twisted in his seat to set her on her feet, and off she toddled to find her toys.

“Hello, my big love,” said John, smiling at his partner. Sherlock smiled back. “How are you doing?”

“I'm doing well, John. We both miss you.”

“I miss you, too. You have no idea.”

Sherlock gave him an appraising look. "Oh, I think I have some idea... Luckily for you, I anticipated this turn of events and prepared a little puzzle for you.”

“A puzzle?” asked John. He sat up, gaze sharpening. Maybe this evening wouldn't be so bleak after all. “What kind of a puzzle?”

Sherlock hummed. “Oh, just a little something I left somewhere on your laptop for you to find and decode. I promise it will be worth your while.”

“It's not going to be pictures of botfly larvae or something, is it?”

“Don't be ridiculous, John. You know the larvae are only for special occasions.”

John laughed. “I love you, you loon.”

Sherlock grinned. “I love you, too. I’ll be in touch once Rosie is down for the night. Happy hunting!”

John and Rosie said their good nights, and Sherlock signed off. John immediately got to work.

It took him just over half an hour to locate the file folder where Sherlock had buried it in the recesses of his laptop directories, and another ten minutes to crack the password. He snickered when it turned out to be  _boredandhorny_. Once he was able to open the folder, he saw that it contained three video files, simply titled 1, 2 and 3.

John clicked on the first one.

The screen lit up, showing a flash of Sherlock's face, then some uneven movement and clicking sounds as Sherlock set the phone down. As the image settled, John recognised the interior of their bathroom at Baker Street. Judging by the angle, the phone must be sitting on the edge of the bath, right next to the toilet. Sherlock's face came back into the frame. His face was pale, eyes unfocused and red-rimmed.

“Hello, John,” he said thickly, in a tone John had not heard since his stag night. Sherlock was drunk. “I’ve had a few drinks,” Sherlock slurred, “but I swear to drunk I’m not God.” John snickered as he watched Sherlock’s brow knit in confusion.

“Oh, who am I kidding?” the detective asked. “I’m not just drunk, I’m crastered. Plocked. Six sheets to the...blowy thing,” he paused and frowned again, mentally parsing what he'd just said but unable to work out where he'd gone wrong. He dismissed the thought with a shake of his head; going by the way he swayed and looked nauseated right afterward, it seemed that sudden head movements were a bad idea.

Sherlock went on. “The suzz...suspect...kept pouring me grasshoppers. They're—” Sherlock hiccupped “—they're _green_ , John,” he finished, mouth turning down in disgust. He leaned forward, and the screen filled with an extreme closeup of the detective's forehead as he nearly overbalanced. “Dzoo you know how disgusting crème de menthe is, John? Izz revolting. But I had to keep him talking until Garrett...Gabriel...Goldorak..." John snickered at that last one as Sherlock waved a hand in front of his face “—whazzizzname could get there. He took me out for chips afterward. The DI, I mean, not the suzzpect...To zoak up the alcohol, he said, but,” here Sherlock leaned forward again, eyes widening as he imparted something of great import, “I think the zships were a mistake, John. I think the grasshoppers...and the chips...are having a fight in my stomach. Thazz what it feels like. I think they're zrying to fight their way out. They're—” here Sherlock’s mouth worked with a sound somewhere between a hiccup and a gag, and John realized exactly where this video was heading “—they're coming out, John, whether I want them to or not. Szo I decided to make this video becuzz at least one of usz should get some enjoyment out of this.”

He burped, and John could see what little colour remained drain out of the detective's face. His head wobbled forward as his gorge rose. “Oh, yeah...” Sherlock groaned. “Def— _hic_ —nitely going to be sick now.”

John's breath caught, pulse jumping in anticipation.

On screen, Sherlock raised the toilet seat, mouth opening as saliva began dripping from between his lips. He began swallowing convulsively, swaying forward minutely with each surge of nausea. John’s cock stiffened in his pants as he watched avidly, anticipation building. Sherlock began making small, barely audible grunting noises as his distress mounted. Soon he was gagging in earnest, head over the bowl. The first two retches were unproductive; the third was the charm. The first wave was small, but it was just the warm-up. It was enough for the smell to hit Sherlock, and that started the expulsion in earnest. He lurched forward over the bowl, retching so loudly it sounded like he was yelling. The next wave was thick and chunky, a good hard blow that splashed straight into the water. Sherlock coughed and groaned, panting, before jolting forward and spewing again. It was projectile vomiting this time, and greenish-brown chunks erupted out of him, striking the raised seat and splattering down onto the bowl edge and floor.

John was ragingly hard now, and he scrambled to undo his belt and push his jeans open, palming his cock through his pants. On screen, Sherlock coughed and spat. There was another surge of vomit—another long, hard blow into the bowl—and then a pause as his stomach considered whether it was done or not. That might have been the end of it if Sherlock hadn't then tried to clean up the mess he'd made. He flushed the toilet and tore off some loo roll, using it to wipe his streaming eyes and blow his nose. After a moment, he tore off another length and used it to mop up the vomit, trying to avoid looking at it as he did so. He gagged, holding his breath as he scrubbed at the seat, but it was no good. With a small sound of distress, he gave up the fight and put his head over the bowl, shoulders rolling forward as he puked hard. Mercifully, that seemed to be the end of it.

The detective spat into the toilet, groaning. His face was devoid of colour except for the redness around his eyes. “That was absolutely revolting,” was his final assessment. “And I'm still going to have to clean up the rest of this. The smell in here is horrid.” The corners of his mouth turned down as he suppressed a gag. “And then...I'm going to drink some water and get some sleep before the next go-round, because I doubt very much that this is over,” he said tiredly. “So...later.” The video ended.

John scrambled to click on the second video. At first, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but after a moment he realized the white rectangle in the centre of the frame was the plastic dish tub from their kitchen. It appeared to be sitting on their bedroom floor, next to the bed. The camera was looking down into it from an angle. Sherlock was off screen, the only sound his laboured breathing. “The room is spinning,” the detective moaned. “Oh, God, why does the room have to spin? I hate this.” The side of Sherlock’s face appeared at the edge of the frame as he hung his head over the bin. His breath caught, gorge rising, and a long line of clear saliva dripped down into the basin. John palmed his throbbing cock through his pants. On screen, Sherlock coughed again, and then there was a gurgling retch and a drumming sound as vomit showered down into the bin. The waves began cascading out almost rhythmically then, as Sherlock stopped fighting and brought up surge after surge of watery puke, punctuated by moans and gasps. John groaned and pushed his pants and trousers down, fisting his cock and stroking in earnest now.

There was a pause on screen, and Sherlock wiped his mouth. “I'm not done,” he slurred. “There's more coming, I can feel it.” The part of his face that was visible jerked with the force of his heaves, and one last heavy gush gurgled out to hit the plastic with a splatter, splashing vomit up the sides of the bin. There was a pause of some seconds there as Sherlock caught his breath. He spat into the bin a few times, and then retched again, but nothing came up apart from a thick string of clear stomach mucus. Sherlock’s head moved out of the frame. There was a groan, and the screen went black.

John moaned, not stopping his stroking as he clicked on video number 3. This video had clearly been recorded on a different day. This time the camera was on their bedroom floor, looking up at an angle. Sherlock knelt on the floor in front of the camera. “Hello, John,” he said. “Not drunk this time, but definitely feeling unwell. You’re at work right now, Rosie is at nursery, and I just got back from doing paperwork at the Yard. I got peckish before I left, so I had lunch at that little place around the corner, you know, the one with the fried chicken?” Sherlock's Adam’s apple worked with something that started as a belch and ended with a gag. John’s cock jumped in his hand at the sound. “It's been repeating on me for hours,” Sherlock went on with a grimace. “My chest feels like it's on fire and I feel like I have a brick sitting in my stomach. I nearly threw up on the cab ride home. Managed to keep it down, but it was a near thing. Although I did have an evidence bag handy, just in case. Now, though, my lunch is about to come up. Just a matter of time. And for once I actually _want_ to be sick, just to get this stuff out of me.”

Sherlock sat back a bit, the corners of his mouth gradually turning down as his nausea intensified. The colour drained from his lips as John watched. The detective swayed forward as the first gag racked him, one hand coming up to his mouth. He spat out a mouthful of saliva. The next heave brought up some actual stomach contents, and when the smell hit, Sherlock doubled over and power puked onto the floor. It struck with a muted splatter, making John groan. God, how had Sherlock known to put down a towel? The sound of puke hitting fabric was a huge turn-on for him. John was panting now, fisting his cock and writhing, closing in on his climax.

"Oh, God, that felt so good," Sherlock rasped, smiling with relief, and John nearly came right then. The smile abruptly fell from the detective's face. "Oh...going to throw up again," he said, cheeks filling almost before he finished speaking. He bent forward and emptied his stomach in a huge gush followed so closely by a second that he gasped for breath when it was done.

John's mobile lit up with a call from Sherlock. John grabbed the phone and thumbed the screen to accept the call, not even bothering to speak. His harsh breathing was answer enough. “Have you come yet, John?” the silken baritone whispered in his ear. On screen, more vomit erupted from Sherlock, spraying dangerously close to the camera. From that angle it almost looked like—

“Are you imagining me throwing up on you?” asked Sherlock in his ear. “You like that, don't you? My dirty boy. I'm hard, too, thinking about it.” He moaned, low, and there were wet sounds in the background. John realized Sherlock was pulling himself off, too, and the thought was unebelievably arousing.

On screen, Sherlock gagged up a mouthful of mucus and stomach acid, even closer to the camera this time. “I'm going to come, John!” said the voice in his ear. “Mmm...so close. But I want you to come with me. Can you come for me, John? Can you come while you watch me puke?” John moaned, fist flying over his cock. On screen, Sherlock locked eyes with the video camera and groaned John's name, never breaking eye contact as he leaned forward and lost the last of his stomach contents all over the floor.

“Sherlock—Sherlock—oh, G—!” was all John could manage as he felt his balls draw up hard and tight in preparation for release.

“Yes! Yes, that's it. Come for me, John! Come for me so I can come, too,” Sherlock gritted out through the phone, and John did. With a strangled _hng-hng-aaaahh!_ he arched up off the bed, climaxing with a full-body spasm that sent jet after jet of come splattering over his shirt. His head jerked to the side as some of it struck his cheek. He was making a mess of himself, his clothes and the bedding, but he was too far gone to care. Once the last spurt was wrung out of him, he collapsed back down, shaking and spent, too weak to do more than pant into the phone beside him on the pillow. He could hear Sherlock groaning and whimpering as he came down from his own orgasm.

On the video screen, Sherlock wiped his mouth, smirked at the camera, and winked. The screen went black.

 _Jesus_ , John thought. _How did I ever get this lucky?_


	4. The Nitrile Glove Fiasco

John had enjoyed a delicious breakfast, followed by a shower and shave, and was rounding out his personal grooming routine with some vigorous oral hygiene when all at once Sherlock erupted into the room. The detective was fairly vibrating with excitement over his latest experiment. “John!” he exclaimed. “Where are the nitrile—”

He broke off as John jerked in surprise, accidentally jabbing the toothbrush into his left tonsil as he turned. His gag reflex, always on a hair trigger, rose to the occasion. John gagged and twisted back toward the sink, barely getting his head over the basin before the first wave of his full English came spraying out. The toothbrush clattered to the floor as he clutched the edge of the sink, gulping hard in a vain attempt to keep the rest down, but it was no good. He managed to choke out an apology before hunching over and throwing up again.

Sherlock stood frozen in shock for the second or two it took for the smell of the coffee in John's vomit to reach him, and then he jolted into motion, rushing for the toilet. He made it just in time for the first surge of his own breakfast to come up and splash into the bowl.

“M’sorry, Sherlock,” John said again, and puked up his egg and sausage.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock groaned, and brought up another wave of toast and tea. His retch went from rasp to gurgle as the vomit surged up, and the sound made John throw up again. Soon he and Sherlock were taking turns heaving as though in some repulsive variation on a call-and-response, John spewing into the sink and Sherlock into the toilet, each setting the other off, until at length they simply ran out of stomach contents.

Once thirty seconds had gone by with nothing more than the occasional dry heave, they decided they were done and straightened up, both ashen and shuddering and wiping at their streaming eyes. Sherlock flushed the toilet and turned unsteadily toward the door. His gaze fell on the sink full of John's curdled breakfast and he gagged again, for a moment unsure whether he was going to have to go back for an encore. He averted his eyes, swallowing hard and holding out. One hand went to his aching stomach, willing it to settle. John moved to his side and put an arm around him, his instinct to provide support and care superseding his own unsteadiness. He rubbed a hand over Sherlock's back. "Breathe, love," he said, and Sherlock did. After a few moments, the urge to vomit began to subside. 

“I am so sorry, love,” John breathed. “I never meant for that to happen. Bloody gag reflex." He moved his arm up to the shaking detective's shoulder and gestured toward the door with his other hand. "Come on, love. Let's get you away from the smell, and then I'll come back and clean this up.”

Sherlock simply nodded, moving in a daze as John guided him into the living room. He sank weakly into his chair. John fetched a blanket, wrapping it around his lover's shoulders, and brought him a glass of water.

"Thank you, John," said Sherlock unsteadily.

John cupped his jaw with one hand, stroking a thumb over one ashen cheek. "Poor love. I'm so sorry. Do you need anything else?"

Sherlock shook his head. John bent down and placed a gentle kiss on the detective's forehead. "Okay. I'm just going to clean up now." Sherlock nodded again.

John was moving toward the bathroom when Sherlock called, "John?" The older man turned back with a quizzical look. 

Sherlock was nearly as pale as his white shirt. "No strawberry preserves with breakfast anymore, John." He swallowed audibly. "Ever."

John smiled despite himself. "Yeah, okay. Can't imagine I'll be too keen on a full English myself for a while."

John turned back to the reeking bathroom, grimacing at the mess he'd left in the sink. Cleaning up his own sick wasn't how he'd envisaged spending his morning, but apparently his gag reflex had had other plans. Shaking his head, he went off to find the very nitrile gloves that had precipitated this whole fiasco.


	5. Vulnerable

Sherlock and John had been on the case for nearly three weeks, called in by INTERPOL to trace an art forger who had recently branched out into serial murder. The case had led them first to Paris via a crooked gendarme with ties to his bent counterparts in other countries. Then, two days ago, they had finally tracked their man to Canada. He was in Montreal, holed up in a tiny bedsit (oddly called a one-and-a-half here) in the Rosemont-Petite Patrie district. The previous evening, with the help of the Sûreté du Québec and the Montreal Police Service, the suspect had been persuaded to surrender peacefully. The case satisfactorily concluded, Sherlock and John had indulged in their customary post-case feast, Montreal style, with poutine from La Banquise. This was followed the next morning by a lavish breakfast at Beauty’s, after which John returned to their hotel to write up his case notes and Sherlock went in to the station house to take care of the post-case paperwork, though not without complaint.

“Ticking boxes and filling out forms,” the detective groused. “Dull. Boring!”

“Necessary,” said John around a mouthful of French toast and bacon. “Besides, the quicker you get the unpleasant bits out of the way, the sooner we can focus on the fun stuff. We do have the room for another two nights, and we haven't had a chance to try out the whirlpool bath.” He gave the detective a heated look that had Sherlock bolting the rest of his eggs Benedict and rushing off to hail a cab. John smiled and lingered over his coffee.

Two hours later, paperwork duly completed and signed, Sherlock was sent on his way with the thanks of both the municipal and provincial police forces. Anticipation building, he hailed another cab to take him back to the hotel. His first cab ride earlier that day had been unremarkable in every way, but this one turned out to be special, in the worst possible way.

In retrospect, he should have known he was in trouble at the first whiff of artificial pine scent. The vehicle was so redolent of air freshener that Sherlock very nearly waved the driver off, but the thought of John in the whirlpool bath spurred him on. He got in, doing his best to breathe shallowly, and gave the address of the hotel, hoping that olfactory fatigue would set in quickly. The driver gave a sullen nod and put his foot down, which was the second indication he was in trouble.

The taxi peeled away from the kerb at breakneck speed before Sherlock could even fasten his seatbelt. He struggled to do so as they careened down the street, dodging other vehicles and hitting numerous potholes (going by the state of its asphalt, the entire city appeared to have suffered an artillery barrage). He had almost managed to fasten the belt when a high-velocity right-hand turn tipped him over onto the unoccupied half of the back seat, and that was when he smelled what the air freshener was meant to be masking. Someone had been sick all over the back seat of this car, and not that long ago, either. Sherlock straightened up, feeling his eggs Benedict begin churning against his diaphragm.

The driver stomped on the brakes as traffic came to a standstill. “Ostie d’travaux,” the driver grumbled, eyeing the row of orange traffic cones blocking off one lane. “Pu capable de s’rendre nulle part, ça a pas d’allure.” Traffic began moving again and he stomped on the gas, then promptly slammed on the brakes as it stopped again. Sherlock’s now-fastened seatbelt jerked taut as it took his body weight. Ordinarily he would have reduced the man to near-tears with a string of humiliating deductions, but right now all his energy was focused on keeping his breakfast down. He felt himself break out in a cold sweat as he swallowed hard, suppressing a gag.

The cabbie eyed him warily in the mirror. “Toé, j’te préviens, si tu dégueules dans mon char, j’te flanques drette icitte.”

“À en juger par l’odeur, je serais loin d’être le premier à vômir dans votre voiture,” Sherlock retorted, and clamped his lips shut. A feeble riposte, but he was afraid if he kept talking, more than just words would be exiting his mouth.

That earned him a sneer in the mirror. The cab screeched to a halt “Aweille, débarque. Hôtel Bonaventure, pis pas avant l’temps. Quatorze et quarante-cinq.”

Sherlock handed over one of the odd-smelling polymer twenties in his wallet, snapping his fingers through the bill to make sure the note hadn’t stuck to its neighbour. Although it galled him to be tipping this lunatic masquerading as a cabbie, he just wanted out of this cab before he threw up. The driver’s scowl magically vanished when he realized he was being tipped nearly fifty per cent. Sherlock exited and the car roared off. The detective pitied the next passenger.

John looked up from his laptop, startled, as Sherlock stumbled into their room, catching himself on the wall as the door swung shut behind him. One look at his lover’s ashen face had him out of his chair like a shot. “Sherlock? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“Not hurt, John, just—motion sickness, I think. The cabbie drove like a lunatic and someone had been sick in his cab—” he broke off as his stomach did a slow roll and his mouth filled with saliva.

“Say no more, love. Here, let me help you.” John helped Sherlock divest himself of his Belstaff, tossing the coat onto a chair.

Sherlock swayed where he stood. “I’m going to throw up, John.”

“I know, love. Come on, best get to the loo.”

John put an arm around Sherlock’s quaking shoulder and guided him toward the bathroom. “I hate throwing up, John.”

“I know. I know you do.”

“But if it has to happen, I want you to...you know.”

John stopped in his tracks and Sherlock preceded him into the loo. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock turned back to him, nodding, and looked down at John’s groin with a weak smirk. “You’re already half hard just at the thought.”

John’s smile was sheepish. There was no use denying it. Sherlock gagged and brought a hand to his mouth. He swallowed hard, still fighting his body’s demands. The bulge in John’s jeans expanded, tracing a ridge from crotch to hip bone. “And now you’re all the way hard. I’m going to throw up now, John. How do you want—” his gorge rose “—me to do it? Tell me quickly, or it’s going on the floor.”

John caught his breath at that. As much as he would love to see Sherlock empty his stomach across the tile, clean-up would be basically impossible in a hotel room, and he wasn’t the kind of prick who would leave something like that for the housekeeping staff. He spotted the clear plastic bin next to the toilet and snatched it up. “Here, use this, so I can see. Sit on the toilet and I’ll sit on the edge of the bath here, facing you.” Sherlock nodded, gagging again, and positioned himself as instructed. He took the bin from John and held it on his lap, hands trembling. He looked up.

“Go on, John. Even though I’m sick, I still want to watch you.” John hesitated, then nodded, standing and unfastening his belt and jeans before pushing everything down to mid-thigh. He breathed a sigh of relief as his cock bobbed free, already flushed a deep red and beginning to leak at the tip. He wrapped a fist around it, breath quickening in anticipation.

Sherlock gave a weak smile, but then his lips whitened, and John knew it wouldn’t be long now.

“Oh...” Sherlock groaned. “Oh, God, here it comes—” John’s breath hitched and he felt his cock surge in his hand. He began stroking himself, arousal flaring in response to the little groans and grunts Sherlock was making as his stomach churned.

Apparently Sherlock’s body had decided to dispense with the preliminaries and get straight down to business, because there was no gagging or dry heaving. Sherlock sat for a moment with his eyes closed, then all at once hunched over the bin, opened his lips, and puked loud and hard. An obscenely thick wave of yellowish-brown chunks drummed into the bottom of the container, and John almost came from the sound alone. Sherlock coughed and spat and retched again. A chunk caught in his throat, triggering his gag reflex, and he doubled over as another huge surge erupted out of him, sloshing into the bin. John moaned and stood up, already nearing his climax though Sherlock had only thrown up twice so far.

Sherlock leaned back and shuddered, gasping for breath. There were tears in his eyes. He clutched his midsection with one hand, gulping as he fought the urge to vomit again. His stomach roiled and he leaned forward reflexively, bringing his head back over the bin. The smell of his own stomach contents assaulted him—coffee, eggs, Hollandaise, _oh, God_ —and that was the end of the fight. Shoulders rolling forward and eyes squeezing shut, he thrust his head out over the bin and brought up the rest of his breakfast in a series of wracking gushes.

John was thrusting into his own fist now, bollocks hard and full and drawn up tight, in such a frenzy of arousal that he was unaware that he was speaking aloud. _Oh, God, yes, Sherlock, let it out. Ahhh...so hot. Jesus, puke it up, yeah, that’s it. That’s it, let me see you. Yeah, just empty yourself, I want to see it all come out of you. Oh, God...fuck..._ _Oh, fuck—ohfuck—I’mgonnacome!_ He climaxed with a wordless shout of ecstasy, spurting hot and thick over the tile floor, the last of it splattering out just as Sherlock finished spewing into the bin. John’s legs gave out suddenly and he sat back down on the edge of the tub, hard enough to make his teeth clack. His chest heaved.

Both men panted and shuddered as they recovered from their exertions. With a look of revulsion, Sherlock put the bin down on the floor. He stayed where he was, the back of one hand pressed to his mouth. He swayed, looking as though he was about to faint. As soon as he was able, John tucked himself away and pushed to his feet, turning his full focus on Sherlock. He snagged a towel off the rack, tossing it over the mess he’d made of the floor, and then grabbed a flannel off the shelf. He dampened the cloth with cold water from the tap and stepped over to his lover.

“Here, love,” he said softly, pushing the reeking bin away into a corner, hopefully out of sniffing range until he could dispose of it properly. “This will help you feel better.” He stroked the damp cloth over his lover’s cheeks and mouth, wiping away the tears and sick, then folding the cloth over and sponging Sherlock’s forehead and the back of his neck. The detective revived a bit, sighing with relief and leaning into John. He was still shaking. John knelt and put his arms around the detective, gently rocking him as he recovered. Sherlock returned the embrace weakly. After a minute or two, John drew back enough to look his lover in the eye.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what, John?” Sherlock scoffed. “Getting motion sickness and losing my last three meals all in one go? As if any of that was by choice.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” said John softly. He put a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, thumb tracing tenderly over one cheekbone. “But I know how much you hate being sick. More than you would ever admit, even to me. I know it’s almost traumatic for you.” Sherlock looked down and away. “No, love,” said John, putting a hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck and gently guiding his head back up until their gazes met. “Don’t be embarrassed. Don’t ever be embarrassed about this, with me. You’re the only person I could ever admit my kink to, you know, let alone act on it with. I get how private this is, how vulnerable it makes you feel. What I’m saying is, I know how much you dread being sick, and the fact that you could look past your own misery to even think about helping me get off at a time like that, well... that’s amazing. You’re amazing, and I am so lucky to have you. To have you to be vulnerable with. So, thank you.” He smiled up at his lover. “I love you so much.”

Sherlock’s eyes welled up. “John,” he said, too exhausted to manage more. It was enough.

“Shhh,” said John, his own eyes full of tenderness as he wiped his lover’s tears away. “I know. I know, love. Come on, let’s wash your mouth out and then I’ll put you to bed.” Sherlock nodded and rose. They stopped at the sink so he could rinse his mouth with the complimentary mini-bottle of mouthwash, followed by a drink of water.

Back in the room, John stripped down to his vest and pants, then helped Sherlock do likewise. He pulled back the duvet and bed linens, and Sherlock slid between the crisp bedsheets with a sigh of relief. John tucked him in, murmuring a word of reassurance before stepping back into the bathroom to empty and rinse out the bin and give the floor a better cleaning. That done, he returned to the bed and slid in behind Sherlock, spooning him in what he had come to think of as their comfort pose. He put an arm around the detective, who took his hand, placing a kiss on the open palm before twining their fingers together over his heart. They were both asleep in moments.

When they awoke it was late afternoon and pale sunlight was slanting in onto the bed. Sherlock stirred first, squinting as the light hit his eyes. John woke next, catching his breath at the beauty of the man beside him, all auburn highlights and glacier blue eyes in the golden late-day light. The nap had restored much of the colour to Sherlock’s cheeks, and he smiled drowsily as John reached out a hand to brush a curl off his forehead.

“How are you feeling, love?” asked John. “Do you need anything? I want to take care of you.”

Sherlock hummed, pressing up into John’s touch like a cat. “Much better. And you know what it does to me when you take care of me.”

John chuckled. “Oh, yes, I know. Is my care having its customary effect?”

Sherlock smirked, moving his hips beneath the duvet and catching his lower lip between his teeth. “Mmmmh... why don’t you make a deduction?”

John pulled back the covers, exposing his bedmate’s impressively tented pants. “Oh, I don’t think I need to. The answer—the very _obvious_ answer—is staring me in the face... literally.” He felt his own cock filling out in response to Sherlock’s arousal. He moved down, breathing on Sherlock’s erection through his pants, and watched as the member plumped and filled, stretching the cotton to tearing point. Sherlock hissed and spread his legs as John nuzzled his cock through the cloth. “I think I want to suck you,” he said, looking up to gauge Sherlock’s reaction.

“Mmm...no,” said the detective.

John was taken aback. “ _No?_ ”

“No. I think I want to suck you. In fact, I want to suck you until you scream, and I want you to come down my throat.”

“Oh, God,” John groaned. “You’re going to be the death of me. Are you sure?”

In answer, Sherlock sat up, pushing John down onto his back and straddling his thighs. He grabbed the hem of John’s vest and began pulling it up. “Very sure. But you have to be naked first.”

“No argument here,” said John, as he sat up, whipping the shirt off and flinging it across the room. It was soon joined by his pants and their higher-end counterparts.

Sherlock went down on him like a starving man, slurping and sucking and taking John’s entire length down his throat. Unlike John, Sherlock’s gag reflex apparently disappeared if he was sufficiently aroused; also unlike John, he not only _could_ swallow, but he also loved it. He methodically took John apart, slurping and humming with pleasure as he did so. John knew he was making wanton sounds that would have mortified him in any other situation, but this was Sherlock, and John was so far gone that he didn’t care how he sounded. It wasn’t long before Sherlock brought him to a rapturous orgasm and with a hoarse shout, he spent himself in his lover’s mouth.

Sherlock swallowed it all down, so turned on now that he squirmed and writhed against the sheets as his cock demanded friction. His balls felt like they were about to burst. He sat up, then knelt on the bed beside John, grasping his engorged prick and stroking himself frenetically.

“Wait,” said John. “Let me—”

“Can’t,” Sherlock choked out. “Can’t wait. _Hnng..._ ”

John gave him a long look, then, assessing. He spread his legs and shuffled down until he lay spread out beneath the detective. “Come on me, then,” he said simply.

Sherlock’s hand stuttered on his cock as he stared down in shock. “What?”

John licked his lips, eyes boring into Sherlock’s. “You heard me. I want you to come on me. I want your come all over me.”

“Are you s-sure?”

“Fuck, yes,” he growled. “Make a mess of me. Ruin me. Come on!”

Sherlock felt his cock surge in his hand at John’s words, and he resumed his stroking, voice rising in pitch as he felt his orgasm nearing. “Oh, God—oh, God, John—oh, God, coming!”

“Yes! Oh, yes, fuck, yeah, that’s it! Oh, fuck!” John rasped, and pushed himself closer to his lover.

Sherlock jolted forward, cock in hand, and came convulsively all over John, splattering his torso, chest and even one cheek with stripes of white. The last few spurts pulsed out onto John’s flaccid cock, and then Sherlock collapsed onto the bed beside him.

John put a hand to his cheek, wiping off the ejaculate, then spread it over his midsection, smearing himself with Sherlock’s come.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock managed to gasp out.

“Exactly what you wanted me to do,” John panted.

“What?”

“It’s been a fantasy of yours, hasn’t it? Having me spread out underneath you, coming all over me?”

“How did you... Did you just deduce me, John Watson?”

“Mmm, yep. I believe I did.” He gave a low chuckle, pleased at his own cleverness.

Sherlock was still breathing hard. “You always manage to surprise me, John. I would never have asked you for that, you know. I never thought you would go for that.”

“I never would have, before, with others. But you? Yes. Anything for you. Anything you want. Don’t be afraid to ask me for what you want, love.”

“You are amazing, John Watson.” They kissed, slow and deep, Sherlock still panting. The detective reached over the side of the bed, retrieving a random clothing item, and used it to wipe John down before pulling the duvet over them both and snuggling up to his blogger.

“Amazing,” he repeated, and they both drifted off again, smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am doing Montreal cab drivers a disservice here. To my knowledge, none of them drives this badly, nor are they this rude. Montreal's streets really are relief maps of the moon, however. The cab driver in question is speaking _joual_ , a Montreal-specific dialect of Quebec French. Sherlock, of course, is speaking purest Parisian French. Because he would.  
> \- Ostie d’travaux = fucking road work  
> \- Pu capable de s’rendre nulle part, ça a pas d’allure = Can't get anywhere anymore, it's ridiculous  
> \- Toé, j’te préviens, si tu dégueules dans mon char, j’te flanques drette icitte = I'm warning you, pal, if you puke in my car, I'm throwing you out right here  
> \- À en juger par l’odeur, je serais loin d’être le premier à vômir dans votre voiture = Going by the smell, I would be far from the first to vomit in your vehicle.  
> \- Aweille, débarque. Hôtel Bonaventure, pis pas avant l’temps. Quatorze et quarante-cinq = All right, get out. Hôtel Bonaventure, and just in time. Fourteen forty-five


	6. Self-loathing

“John,” said Sherlock tentatively one evening, as they lay in their bed together. He bit his lip, eyeing John speculatively. “I think I’d like to try something...”

John perked up, interest piqued. He put down the paperback he'd been reading and turned towards the detective, propping himself up on one elbow. “Tell me.”

“Well, I’ve noticed that you’ve been re-watching those videos I made for you lately.”

John smiled. “Well...yeah. They’re hot. And watching you spray puke everywhere...God. Makes me come every time.” He licked his lower lip, hips shifting beneath the covers.

“And it’s been a very long time since I was last sick...”

“Yeah...” John frowned. “If you’re thinking of making yourself sick somehow just so I can—”

“No. Well, yes, but—”

“Absolutely not, Sherlock. I told you, I won’t let you hurt yourself for me—”

“But this is something I’d really like to do, John, and I have a feeling you would find it incredibly erotic. And of course I would need your care afterward, so...win-win.”

John sighed but couldn’t deny that his cock was already stirring at the mere mention of Sherlock being sick. “What do you have in mind?”

Sherlock leaned close and told him.

“Are you serious? You want me to—while you—”

“I’m completely serious. You can’t deny it turns you on, John. The thought alone is responsible for that very impressive tent you’re currently pitching under the covers. You've thought about it, admit it.”

John shifted his hips, humming a bit as his bell end rubbed up against the sheets, shifting the duvet. Sherlock licked his lips at the sight. “You’re right, I can’t deny it.”

“And it wouldn’t take much. You know I’m a lightweight, always have been. That, plus the motion when we—well, it will be quick, and I think quite spectacular.”

“So, where? Here, with a setup like the first time?”

“Not exactly like the first time. I want this to be _messy_.” John’s breath hitched and Sherlock grinned, knowing he had him. Oh, this was going to be fun.

Four days later, the two men were sat—or perhaps slumped would be a better description—in their respective chairs in the living room of 221B. Empty fish and chips wrappers were strewn over the coffee table, and there was whisky in the room: a bottle, half-empty, on the floor beside John’s chair, and two glasses, half-full, in their hands. Both men were pleasantly inebriated, just at the point of tipping over into outright drunk.

“Two more should do it, I think,” Sherlock mumbled. As expected, he was the more impaired of the two. “I never drink this much of the hard stuff.”

There was a sex joke in there somewhere, John knew, but his brain was too addled to find it. “Hard stuff,” he snorted, giggling into his glass.

Sherlock gave an answering snort. “Very mature, John,” he slurred, and slugged back the rest of his drink. He held out his glass for a refill.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock knew he’d found his tipping point. The room, while not yet spinning, had gone fuzzy around the edges, and he was feeling disconcertingly _untethered_.

“Time to go?” asked John.

Sherlock nodded, pushing himself crotch-first out of his chair. John giggled again at the sight. “Here, let me.” Though not much steadier himself, he helped the taller man lever himself upright, and the two staggered down the hall to their bedroom. They tried to cross the threshold at the same time, getting jammed in the doorway and dissolving into giggles all over again. At length they made it through the door and found themselves next to the bed, clumsily shedding clothes. Sherlock’s foot caught in a trouser leg and he tipped forward onto the mattress, catching himself on his hands.

“Ohhhh,” said John at the sight of that plush arse in the air. “That’s how I want you, I think, just like that.”

“Mmmm. Come and get me, then,” Sherlock purred, spreading his legs and bending forward. The sight of those firm buttocks spread to reveal the puckered entrance, and below that, the full, firm bollocks, made John’s mouth water. Sherlock’s cock hung heavy and engorged between his legs.

“Oh, Jesus,” said John. He stepped forward, putting a reverent hand to the firm globe of one buttock. He had never done this before, and maybe it was the alcohol, but he didn’t give it a second thought. Going to his knees, he spread Sherlock’s cheeks, opened his mouth, and licked a long stripe from his bollocks straight on upward.

Sherlock jerked in astonishment at the sensation. “Oh, my _God_ , John!” he gasped, so John did it again. Sherlock moaned and bucked. John grasped Sherlock’s hips, holding him in place, and began unceremoniously tongue-fucking him. It was new and filthy and oh, so _fucking hot_. Sherlock was moaning and writhing, his arousal already spiking. “John,” he rasped. “I’m going to come if you keep doing that.”

“Good,” John growled. “I want you to come, and then I’m going to fuck you.” He reached over to the nightstand for the lube and slicked up one hand, then returned to his oral ministrations. He reached around and grasped Sherlock’s cock, eliciting a shuddering groan from his lover as he gave it a firm stroke and resumed his sucking and licking. He synchronized his tongue thrusts with his manual strokes, driving Sherlock to an incoherent frenzy of arousal. It wasn't long before the detective’s chant of _ohGodohGodohGod_ dissolved into a wordless howl as he hit a convulsive climax. John watched avidly, enjoying the closeup view of Sherlock's puckered hole twitching and contracting and his bollocks pulsating as they shot thick ribbons of come out onto the comforter. Sherlock's cock jumped and twitched in his hand.

“Yeah...yeah, that’s it,” John growled. “Yeah, come everywhere for me.” He kept stroking as the detective shuddered through the last of his climax, then stood and slicked up his own cock.

“I want to fuck you now, Sherlock. Do you want that, too?”

The dark-haired man nodded wordlessly, still bent panting and moaning over the mattress. He spread his legs and thrust his bottom out, opening himself to John. “Yes, John. Yes, fuck me!”

John obliged, lining himself up and pushing in with one long, slow thrust, until he was bollocks deep in Sherlock’s arse. “Is that what you wanted?” he ground out. “Hmm? My cock in that fucking gorgeous arse? Fucking you until you can’t see straight?” He pulled out and thrust back in and the detective groaned, low and filthy.

“Yes, John. Yes, I want your cock in me. Oh, fuck! Fuck me!” He dissolved into incoherence again as John wrapped an arm around his chest, pulled him upright, and began thrusting into him in earnest. The moaning tapered off after a minute or two, however, as another sensation began making itself known.

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Oh...John, it’s starting. It’s coming.”

John was grunting with his exertions. “Want me to stop?”

“No! God, no. Fuck me through it. Oh...God, I feel sick." The room was unsteady again, and the repetitive motion of John’s thrusts wasn’t helping. Sherlock gulped as saliva began flooding his mouth. John felt the spasm of the first gag as Sherlock’s abdominals clenched under his hand.

“You gonna throw up for me now?” he rasped into the detective’s ear. “Throw up while I fuck you?” He wrapped his arm tightly around the detective, wanting to feel every twitch and spasm as Sherlock emptied himself.

Sherlock put a hand over his mouth, gagging, and nodded. “I want to, John. It’s right there—I can feel it—but it won’t come up.” Another gag, but still nothing. “Oh, God, I need to throw up. Help me, John.” He took John’s hand in his own and guided it up to his mouth.

John’s hips stuttered. “You want me to— Are you sure?”

“I need to. Help me,” the detective pleaded. He leaned back to give John better access, and the smaller man hesitantly put two fingers into his lover’s mouth, sliding them back and back until he felt Sherlock’s throat convulse around his fingers. Sherlock coughed and gulped. “Again,” he ground out, and opened his mouth. John slid his fingers to the back of Sherlock’s tongue, gagging him again, and pulled his fingers out as Sherlock’s body took over.

The vomit surged up then, gurgling and rasping as it came, and that was when Sherlock did something John hadn’t expected: instead of bending forward to empty himself, the detective threw his head back, and John’s eyes widened at the sight of a column of vomit erupting from Sherlock’s upturned mouth and arcing upward before raining down onto the bed. Sherlock’s hole convulsed around John’s cock with the effort of his heaving, and John groaned. Sherlock spewed again, saturating the comforter with his stomach contents, and John fucked him through it, teeth gritted in what was turning out to be the most erotic experience of his life.

“Don’t stop, John,” Sherlock rasped, and dry heaved. “Don’t stop! Oh, God—” He convulsed as another wave of puke splattered out onto the bed.

John was keening now, pounding into Sherlock, closing in on his climax but at the same time never wanting this to end.

Sherlock wiped his mouth on his forearm. His mouth and nose were full of the taste and smell of whisky-curdled fish and chips, and he knew he was going to throw up again. “I’m going to puke again, John. Are you going to come for me now?”

John grunted out an affirmative sound, and Sherlock felt a drop of sweat hit his back.

“Come inside me while I puke,” Sherlock rasped. “Fuck me and come while I puke.” He put his head down over the bed then and spewed, gut tensing as his stomach emptied. His hole clamped down on John like a vice and John nearly blacked out with pleasure. He felt his cock stiffen still further as his climax neared. Sherlock puked again just as John was thrusting in, clamping down harder the farther John pushed in, and John keened as the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life crashed over him. He spurted hot and hard, blasting his come into Sherlock even as the detective sprayed his stomach contents over their bed. He fucked him through the last few heaves, both of them groaning and whimpering, and when it was done, both men’s legs abruptly gave out. Sherlock cried out as John’s softening cock slipped out of him, and then they crumpled together onto the floor, clinging to the bed frame as they panted and gasped.

“Oh, my God, come here. Come here,” John said, and wrapped himself around Sherlock, holding and rocking him and kissing his hair as he huffed for breath. “Are you okay?” He turned Sherlock’s face up toward him, brushing the damp curls off his forehead. “Are you okay, love? Did I hurt you?”

“No, John,” Sherlock murmured with a smile. “No, I’m fine. That was _fantastic_!”

John giggled, still short of breath, and hugged his lover tighter, kissing his forehead. They were both shaking. “Thank you,” he breathed against his lover’s neck. “Thank you so much for this.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and they sat, rocking gently, until they felt strong enough to move again.

“Let’s get you in the bath,” John said. “I’ll clean you up, and then I’ll get rid of the evidence.” They rose, leaning on each other, and hobbled into the bathroom.

Sherlock swayed and caught himself on the door frame. “Mmm...still drunk, apparently.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

“You haven’t been sick, though.”

“Well, I _am_ Sco’ish,” said John, affecting a burr. “Takes more’n tha’ t’make me boak.” His grin disappeared as he saw Sherlock’s face drain of colour.

“Oh...” said the detective. “Help me to the toilet, John. I don’t think I’m done being...English.”

John stepped up to help, but he was barely steadier than his partner. Sherlock lost his footing and his stomach contents at the same time, and the vomit went splashing down John’s legs. Sherlock landed on his bum on the floor. 

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock groaned. His cheeks filled and he put a hand to his mouth to try to hold it back, which only served to spray the next volley all over his legs and John's feet. Dazed, he held up his vomit-covered hand, watching with repulsion as a long string of stomach mucus detached itself from his palm and splatted onto his thigh. Overcome with disgust, he puked again, all over his own chest and cock. He choked out another apology.

“Don't you dare apologize,” John said dazedly, looking down at Sherlock slumped on the floor at his feet, covered in his own vomit. His tone was one of arousal rather than revulsion. “If I was capable of getting hard right now, I would be. Jesus, that was hot. I’m going to be getting off to the memory of this forever.”

Sherlock laughed weakly, shaking his head in disbelief. He clambered to his feet, wiping his mouth with his clean hand, and moved shakily to the sink to begin cleaning himself up.

John helped, using a dampened towel to wipe the worst of the mess off his lover, then threw another towel over the mess on the floor. Sherlock was still shaking, and John took his own bath robe off the door hook and wrapped his lover in it. "Sit here just for a second, love, while I clean myself up, and then I'll run you a bath and help you wash, okay?" Sherlock nodded and took a seat on the closed toilet lid.

John hopped in the shower, performing his ablutions in record time so he could get back to taking care of Sherlock. When he was done he switched the water flow to the faucet and filled the bath, then disappeared into the bedroom to fetch a small packet he kept there. “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion,” he said, producing a bath bomb and dropping it into the running water. The tub instantly filled with fragrant pink bubbles.

“That smells divine,” said Sherlock. He looked down at himself. “Far better than I do at the moment.”

“Get in. You won’t believe how nice it feels on your skin, too.”

The detective divested himself of John's robe and did as instructed, and John helped him settle back until the bubbles were up to his chin. He gave a blissful sigh. “Heavenly,” he said, and closed his eyes.

John smiled at the sight, then turned his attention to cleaning the bathroom floor. That done, he fetched a flannel and bent over Sherlock in the tub, gently helping him wash himself clean. By the time he was done, Sherlock was hard again, and John wrapped a hand around his turgid length, stroking languidly in the silken water. Sherlock tipped his head back and groaned, shifting his pelvis so he was thrusting into John's hand. John put his other hand into the water, as well, finding Sherlock's perineum and pressing there rhythmically with two fingers until the detective cried out and ejaculated into the bathwater. He sank bonelessly back down into the bath.

John smiled with satisfaction. “That's it. That's it, love. God, you're so beautiful." He loved making Sherlock come, loved reducing this brilliant man to incoherence even as be brought him to ecstasy. "I’ll leave you to soak while I take care of the bedroom, okay?”

Sherlock simply hummed in response, eyes still closed in rapture.

In the bedroom, John eyed their bed with dismay. When Sherlock had said he wanted it to be messy, he wasn’t kidding. The bed looked like the aftermath of the barf-o-rama scene in _Stand By Me_. He shook his head, then began gathering the edges of the comforter together. He balled it up, keeping the puke contained in the centre, and stuffed it into a bin liner before stripping off the rest of the bedding. Fortunately nothing had penetrated down to the mattress.

He remade the bed with fresh linens and their spare comforter, then stuck his head into the bathroom to let Sherlock know everything was ready and that he was taking the dirty bedclothes down to Mrs. Hudson’s washing machine. Sherlock hummed again in acknowledgment, half asleep in his luxurious bath.

John had washed a load of his and Sherlock’s underthings earlier, and this was still in the machine. He transferred the load to the dryer, automatically clearing the lint trap and tossing the wad of fuzz into the small bin Mrs. Hudson kept for the purpose. He loaded in the reeking sheets and comforter, filled the soap dispenser to “heavy soil” level, and set the machine to the heavy-duty wash cycle. There was a hissing sound as the water poured in, and John sank into a daze, mesmerized by the churning and tossing of the bedclothes inside the machine.

He was grateful Mrs. Hudson wasn’t around to ask questions. She’d be alarmed, probably, thinking one of them was sick. Imagine if she knew the truth! The thought stopped him in his tracks. What _would_ she think if she knew the truth? He had never inquired directly because he really didn’t want to know, but he suspected Mrs. Hudson was far kinkier than either of them knew. And God knows she was tolerant, putting up with Sherlock’s shenanigans for nearly a decade now. But still, what would she think? What would _anyone_ think, if it came to that? Of him, of a man who not only became aroused by a bodily function that most found revolting (which was bad enough), but who would willingly let his partner drink himself to the point of sickness, then fuck him hard while he was puking his guts out? Jesus, what kind of monster _was_ he?

Abruptly John realized that he had been standing there for far too long, and that the swirling motion of the washer was mirroring the roiling in his gut. _Oh, God—_ The sudden flood of wetness in his mouth was his only warning, and with no conscious awareness of the action, he found he had snatched up the lint bin and brought it up just in time to catch the first expulsion of stomach contents. He vomited heavily, retching up wave after greasy wave of fish and chips soured with whisky, gagging and coughing and then throwing up again. A chunk of fish caught in his throat and was expelled with the next violent gush. It took a very long time to for it all to stop, and by the time it ended, he found he had gone to his knees on the floor. His sides ached and his throat felt like sandpaper. As soon as he felt steady enough, he stumbled into Mrs. Hudson’s bathroom and emptied the bin into the toilet. He rinsed his mouth with a shaking hand, then did likewise to the bin before restoring it to its proper place next to the dryer.

He’d better get back upstairs. Sherlock must be wondering where he’d been all this time. He paused at the foot of the stairs, debating whether he should wait until he felt a bit steadier before going up. In the end he decided against it. Sherlock would know anyway.

By the time he got upstairs, Sherlock had got out of the bath and was curled up in their bed in the dimly lit room. The glass of water and two Nurofen John had placed on the nightstand had vanished. No sooner had John crossed the threshold than the detective said, “You were sick.”

John nodded ruefully. “Turns out I’m not as Scottish as I thought,” he joked, looking away.

“It wasn’t the whisky that made you sick,” Sherlock said, eyes raking over him. “It was self-loathing.” It wasn’t a question.

John nodded wordlessly, still not meeting his eyes, his face a picture of misery.

Sherlock raised the covers. “Come here, John. Please.”

John slid wordlessly into bed, turning onto his side to face his lover.

Sherlock leaned forward, cupping John’s jaw and placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Tell me,” he murmured, taking John’s hand and lacing their fingers together.

John sighed. “You ever have one of those moments when you sort of...step outside yourself, mentally? I mean, all of a sudden your perspective shifts, and you see your situation the way it would look to an outsider, and you realize just how fucked up it is, and you wonder what the hell you’re thinking?”

“And you had such a moment? About us?”

“Not about us being _us_ , but about what we just did. About me and my...vomit kink. I mean, most people would think it’s disgusting or that I’m mentally ill or something, and I can understand that. Who gets aroused by his partner puking, for God’s sake? That’s bad enough, but who fucks him while he’s _actually spewing_?”

“Are you forgetting that this entire scenario was my idea? That I asked for it?”

“No, of course not. No, I guess I’m just...worried about what it says about me that I get off on this sort of thing.”

“Well, what does it say about me that I like it? That I like being sick, being helpless, throwing up everywhere, because I know it turns you on, and because I know you’ll take care of me? I’m a grown man who’s fully capable of taking care of himself, yet being cosseted and coddled by you makes me harder than tungsten. Is that normal? Is there even such a thing as normal? And why should we even care?”

John chuckled. “Normal is boring. Isn’t that what you always say?”

“It is. But more importantly, human sexuality is a...a spectrum, and like any spectrum it has extremes and degrees and outliers. We just happen to be outliers in this one area. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. This...what we share together like this...it’s unbelievably precious to me. Because it’s ours, and ours alone, and I need it because it’s part of _us_. Do you remember the first time we tried this?”

“Of course. I’ll never forget it.”

“You said you didn’t want there to be a next time, because you didn’t want me to ever be that sick again.”

“Yeah.”

“And yet we’ve done several variations on it over the years.”

“Yeah. What’s your point, exactly?”

“My point is that you didn’t initiate any of those other times. I did. Every single other time, I initiated it, or I got sick because of something beyond my control and encouraged you to get off on it. Because I get off on it, too. Don’t you see? I love it just as much as you do. I love how crazed it makes you. I love the sounds you make when you’re so turned on you can’t even speak. I love how hard you come from watching me puke. I love it so much that I...” he trailed off.

“That you what?” John asked, mouth quirking up. “Tell me.”

“Well, sometimes I do things that I know will—”

“The fucking fried chicken!” John shouted. “I _knew_ it! I knew you had to be doing that on purpose!”

“Yes, the fried chicken. My point is that if you’re some kind of deviant for enjoying this, then so am I. And we’re not hurting anyone, are we? We’re not even hurting ourselves. It’s not like the vomiting is a regular thing, and you always make sure we’re both all right afterward, so where is the harm? And God, John, you come like a fire hose when we do it, and that is so unbelievably hot, you have no idea.”

John laughed then. “You’re incredible, you know that? And you’re right. About all of it.”

“Of course I am. I’m Sherlock Holmes. It’s what I do.”

John rolled onto his back, bringing Sherlock with him until the taller man was on top of him. “You know what else you do, Mr. Holmes? You turn me on,” he purred, rocking his pelvis until he could feel the taller man’s cock stiffen against his own erect shaft. Both men groaned. John spread his legs, shifting until the tip of Sherlock’s cock was poking his perineum, then put his mouth to his lover’s ear. “Fuck me, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered.

Sherlock was only too happy to oblige.


	7. Fasten Seatbelts

As soon as the FASTEN SEATBELTS sign snapped on, John knew they were in trouble. Not the aircraft itself—the turbulence was not that severe—but just the three people in their row. Rosie had been restless and fussy in her aisle seat since shortly after takeoff, which was hardly unusual for a toddler whose regular schedule had been upended in favour of prolonged periods in an unfamiliar, and now decidedly unsteady, environment. But as the plane began swooping and shaking through the unstable air, John abruptly remembered Mary telling him once about the terrible airsickness she suffered and how she couldn’t fly without anti-emetics and pressure bands. “Chundered all over a flight attendant once as a kid,” she’d said. “It wasn’t pretty, and it never got any better.”

God knew Mary had lied to him about basically everything from the outset, but now, as he watched Mary’s daughter making small whimpers of discomfort, he realized that this had probably been one of the few instances where she told the absolute truth. And it was looking very much as though Rosie had inherited her mother's susceptibility to motion sickness. Unfortunately for all of them, there was very little John could do about it now.

“Uh, Sherlock?” he said to the tall man on his other side, who was resolutely ignoring the view from his window seat in favour of staring at the screen of his mobile. It was supposed to be in airplane mode, but for all John knew, he could be playing Angry Birds.

Sherlock hummed in response, not looking up.

“Sherlock, we’re about to have a problem,” John said tightly.

That got the detective's attention and he looked up, instantly taking in Rosie’s look of misery, the illuminated FASTEN SEATBELTS sign, and the airsickness bag in John's hand. “Oh,” he said, eyes widening as realization struck. “Oh, God.” He straightened up, every muscle tensing as he realized what was about to happen in front of a planeful of strangers.

“Yeah...sorry,” said John with a brief apologetic look before turning his attention back to Rosie. He opened the bag and held it ready, though not directly under Rosie’s mouth. She hated having things thrust in her face, so he was going to have to time this carefully if he didn’t want a smelly mess all over the both of them.

The plane shook and plunged, hard enough for their seatbelts to strain against their hips, and Rosie’s cry of alarm was cut off as she abruptly began vomiting. John managed to get the sick bag into position just in time. He could hear Sherlock rummaging frantically through the seat pouches, though he couldn’t turn to look. Pamphlets and in-flight magazines went flying.

“John, there are no more airsick bags! You’ve got the only one!”

“Shit,” John hissed under his breath, cursing the incompetent idiot who had failed to restock the bags. “The carrier bag we brought. Use that!” Without looking, he thrust a foot under his own seat, snagging one handle of the plastic carrier bag that held snacks and toys for Rosie. He thrust his foot in Sherlock’s general direction just as Rosie vomited again. Sherlock gagged; going by the muffled sound, John guessed he must be holding one hand over his mouth as he struggled to reach the bag. God, the smell was atrocious. 

He heard the toys and snacks go spilling out onto the floor as Sherlock upended the bag. This was no time for delicacy. Rosie vomited again and John managed to catch it. He heard Sherlock begin throwing up, too, and spared a glance to make sure his lover was okay. Sherlock was hunched forward in his seat, face buried in the bag. A small pocket of brown vomit had collected in the bottom, and this surged up once, then again as Sherlock brought up a huge double wave of puke. The bag made a rustling sound, its sides fluttering as the vomit showered down into it. John took an instant to file the sight and sounds away in his wank bank before turning back to their daughter. 

Rosie seemed to be over the worst of it. The post-emesis endorphins were kicking in, and she smiled up at him in relief. “Feeling better, love?” he asked, and she nodded up at him. He fished a paper napkin out of his pocket, gently wiping her mouth. “There we go. All better now.” He carefully closed and sealed the airsickness bag, hoping there wouldn’t be a repeat performance. He pressed the call button for a flight attendant, but he could see that at least a dozen other passengers had done likewise. In fact, there were two people in his direct line of sight who were still heaving into their own bags. The seatbelt light was still on. Help wouldn’t be forthcoming anytime soon.

Sherlock was still hunched over and retching helplessly into his bag. There was little John could do to help except rub his back, grimacing in sympathy as his lover strained and gasped. Now that Rosie's crisis had passed, John was free to appreciate how the light from the window threw the contents of the bag into silhouette. Despite himself, he felt a spike of arousal at the sight of Sherlock spewing a magnificent column of vomit into the bag, every chunk outlined in the glow from the window.

At last the surges tapered off, and John helped him sit back, taking the bag from his nerveless fingers and supplying a second napkin. He knotted the bag tightly and set it on the floor next to the one Rosie had used. Just then a flight attendant appeared, and he handed over the reeking aftermath of their first family airsickness adventure, explaining that they’d had to improvise because of the lack of proper bags. The attendant apologized and promised to remedy the oversight. John ordered two bottles of water and two ginger ales and sat back, placing an arm around each of his loves. The turbulence had finally subsided and they both slumped against him, drained after their exertions. He caressed Rosie’s hair and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, breathing a sigh of relief that the crisis had passed. Their row still looked like the aftermath of a very small cyclone, but at least they weren't all covered in puke. The rest would be easy enough to put to rights once the seatbelt light went out.

Hours later, after they had checked into their hotel and enjoyed a light dinner and John had tucked both his exhausted loves into bed for the night, he prowled the room restlessly. He was tired, as well, but too keyed up to sleep. The room had a luxurious bathroom—an amenity Sherlock had insisted on—and maybe a bath would help. He unearthed his toiletry kit and took it into the bathroom. The giant bathtub looked tempting, but John wanted to save that to enjoy with Sherlock. He opted for a shower instead.

The glassed-in shower stall featured a control panel to rival the cockpit of the plane they'd arrived in, yet it turned out to be surprisingly intuitive to operate. John groaned with pleasure as the steaming water cascaded down over him, washing the travel grime away. He made liberal use of the complimentary soap and shampoo, taking his time.

Once his ablutions were complete, he decided to test out some of the shower’s other features. The first control he tried activated the side jets dotting the walls at various heights. He yelped as one stream of water shot out and struck him straight in the arse. Actually, that drumming sensation could be quite nice if applied correctly. He turned the force down just a bit, then moved about experimentally, bending forward a bit so the water struck his cleft. Oh, _yes_. Holy God, this was almost as good as rimming. His cock began to swell as he moved his arse through the spray, letting the drumming water play over his perineum and sensitive entrance. Within a minute he was panting and biting his lip to keep from moaning aloud. He reached for the conditioner, pouring some into his palm, then reached down to grasp his cock. He began stroking as he leaned forward to open himself to the spray, letting the water fuck him to ecstasy.

“Mmm...” he groaned, keeping his voice low. “Oh, God, yes.” The sight of Sherlock spewing into a plastic bag surged up in his mind and he replayed it all, pulling himself off to the memory. God, how he wished he could have put his hands under the bag to feel the surge of heat through the thin plastic as each wave of puke cascaded down. Other memories of Sherlock spewing crowded in then, and he stroked faster, feeling his bollocks tightening. As his climax neared, he turned around to face the spray, using one hand to shield his oversensitive cock from the direct spray, and moved up close to the jet. Taking his hand away, he guided just the tip of his cock into the spray, angling it so the water pulsated where he was most sensitive, on the underside just near the frenulum. The sensation was electrifying, and he muffled his cries in the crook of his arm as he came convulsively all over the tile.

He was still shaking as he shut off the water and towelled himself dry.

Sherlock cracked an eyelid as he slid into bed beside him a few minutes later. “Good shower?” he mumbled, smirking. Damn the man. Even half asleep in a dark room, he could read John like the top line of an eye chart.

“Oh, yeah. Some very interesting features in there. Tomorrow we’re going to arrange babysitting for Rosie, and then I’ll introduce you to a couple of my favourites.”

“Mmm. Looking forward to it.” The detective gave a sleepy grin, turning onto his side to wrap himself around his blogger. John was a back sleeper and Sherlock liked to drape himself over him as they slept; and though John sometimes complained about feeling like a living, breathing body pillow for the world’s only consulting detective, they both knew he wouldn’t have it any other way. He drew his lover closer, curling his fingers into Sherlock’s luxuriant hair, and sighed in contentment.

His last thought before sinking into a blissful sleep was a mental note to purchase some pediatric anti-emetics for the flight home.


	8. Blindsided

The next time John opened the buried folder on his computer, he found that a fourth video had mysteriously been added. In a case of spectacularly bad timing, the discovery came just as he had to leave for work. He closed the folder with regret. _Later_ , he promised himself. The thought of the video dogged him through the day as he treated coughs and rashes and sore throats with only half his attention on the job. His mind kept wandering off to speculate on just what might be in that fourth video. After having to use his lab coat to camouflage his fifth consecutive semi-stiffie in the space of three hours, John sat down and gave himself a stern talking-to. _This is bloody ridiculous_ , John said. _I’m a professional, not some horny schoolboy_ , John said. _I ought to be able to focus_ , John said. _Ha!_ , his cock said, and gave him his sixth semi-stiffie of the day. John did a headdesk and picked up his next patient’s chart, determined to soldier through.

By the time mid-afternoon rolled around, John was a frazzled, horny mess and actually considering having a speed-wank in the surgery loo as an aid to concentration. It was at this point that fate intervened, sparing him from such a desperate measure: two last-minute cancellations came through just as he was finishing up his chart notes. Suddenly free for the remainder of the day, John seized his chance, shouted an all-purpose goodbye to his co-workers, and very nearly broke the sound barrier getting out the door. He checked his watch as he double-timed it to the tube. Sherlock would be picking Rosie up from nursery in 90 minutes or so; if everything went smoothly, he’d be able to get home, check out the video, and have a little—ahem—alone time before the others returned.

Once back at 221B, he hastily shed his jacket and shoes, confirmed that Mrs. Hudson was out, and took ihis laptop into the bedroom. If this video was anything like the previous ones, he was going to be coming soon and copiously. As a precaution, he snagged a towel off the bathroom rack on his way by. In the bedroom, he propped some pillows against the headboard and settled himself on the bed, cock already plumping up with anticipation. Firing up the laptop, he navigated to the secret folder and clicked on the video marked 4. Propping the laptop on a pillow near his thigh, he settled back to watch, cupping his erection through his trousers.

It seemed to take an age for the clip to load, but soon the screen lit up. The shot was of their bedroom, with the camera set up near the bathroom door and looking toward Sherlock’s periodic table poster on the back wall. It was late afternoon, going by the angle of the light from the window, but the lamps were lit and the room was bright with their glow.

Sherlock walked into the frame from the right side of the screen, facing away from the camera, and paused at the precise spot that ensured a full-length view. John wondered why he was so far away from the camera, but trusted that he had a reason—Sherlock always did, after all. The detective was stark naked, and John took a moment to appreciate the beauty of the man, drinking in the sculpted lines of his back, the lean power of his thighs, and of course that delectable, plush arse. Sherlock was the most beautiful man he had ever seen, hands down, and desire filled him as he watched.

On screen, the detective turned around. John caught his lower lip between his teeth as he saw that his lover was not only fully erect, but so hard that the head of his cock was brushing his navel. Going by the extreme engorgement and dusky flush, John could tell Sherlock had been edging for some time already. He looked closer, noting that Sherlock’s bollocks were already drawn up tight. Not just aroused, then, but ready to come at any second. The knowledge made his own cock fill out the rest of the way, and he reached down to undo his trousers to relieve the pressure. He lifted his bottom to push his underwear down and out of the way. His cock saw its chance and made a break for freedom, springing up and standing tall.

On screen, Sherlock began to move. He fixed his gaze on the camera and brought a hand to his cock, hissing as it made contact with the hypersensitive shaft. His teeth worried his lower lip as he slowly moved his hand over his length, leaving it slick and shiny in its wake. Lube, then, hidden in his palm. John liked where this video was headed, a sentiment with which his cock concurred wholeheartedly.

Wordlessly, Sherlock began stroking himself, filling the room with wet sounds as the lube squelched between his fingers. His breath quickened, abs undulating as his arousal climbed. He kept his strokes slow, drawing it out, not yet chasing his climax. John hastily lubed up his own hand and hummed as he wrapped it around his prick. Watching avidly, he began matching Sherlock stroke for stroke. Sherlock was breathing hard now, tipping his head back now and then. Teeth gritted, he sped up his strokes, bollocks sitting tight and high. Ready to blow. His hand flew over his cock and John followed suit, panting and moaning. God, this was so hot. On screen, Sherlock’s chest heaved, breath gusting loudly, and then he gave a choked-off grunt and came, shooting pulse after thick pulse across the floor. He had always been a spectacular shooter, and this load was no exception. He gasped in a breath and then groaned it out again, a long, breathy utterance of John’s name. John’s fist was a blur now on his own cock. God, he was close. Just a bit more—

On screen, Sherlock’s climax began to subside. He stroked himself through the tail end of it, mouth agape and head tilted back. The last few weakening spurts pulsed out over his fist. He straightened up, panting, one hand still holding his softening cock. He stood so for a moment, catching his breath, and then suddenly gagged, doubled over, and vomited explosively all over the bare floor. He was sick twice more in similar fashion, adding huge gushes of runny brown vomit to the starburst spreading out from his feet. Blindsided, John jack-knifed into a sitting position and came instantly. The orgasm hit with the force of an avalanche, ruthless and unstoppable and sweeping all semblance of restraint away with it. He gave a hoarse shout and came everywhere, helpless to control any part of what was happening. His load was shooting straight up into the air, raining back down all around him onto the bed and his laptop. He cried out again and again, cock spurting fast and hard as Sherlock spewed on screen, both of them helpless to control what their bodies were doing.

It took a minute for John's hearing to clear enough for him to tune back in to what was going on in the video. “—felt this coming on all day,” Sherlock was saying as he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “I’ve caught Rosie’s stomach bug.” His cheeks blew out in an aborted retch. “Wasn’t sure about the timing. Didn’t know if I’d manage to get off before—” He broke off and threw up again, abdominals clenching, then dry heaved with a choking retch. He spat out a string of mucus, shuddering and wiping the puke tears from his eyes. He groaned and looked down at the spreading pool of vomit at his feet, then turned his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh, God, there’s some on my legs. I can’t—oh, God—” He doubled over again and with a wet belching sound, threw up all over his feet. He gagged and retched in revulsion and the last of his stomach contents came up with a rasp. Tears tracked down his face. The video ended there.

John, entirely spent, flopped helplessly back against the pillows, breathing so hard he was wheezing. His throat was raw from shouting and his bollocks felt like they’d just expelled a lifetime’s worth of ejaculate all in one go. He hadn’t even had time to grab the towel before shooting that record-breaking load, and it was _everywhere_. He picked up his laptop to survey the damage. Miraculously, the keyboard had escaped catastrophe by mere millimetres, although there was a large blob of come oozing down the screen and a smaller gob on the touch pad. Nothing a judiciously wielded disinfectant wipe couldn’t handle. The bedding and John’s clothes were another story, however, as indeed was John himself. He levered himself out of bed to start the cleanup. It wouldn’t do for Rosie to come home to this, or to him in such a state.

As he cleaned, he thought back to a month before, when the stomach bug in question had struck. Rosie had picked it up at nursery but had been sick for less than a day before bouncing back. Two days later, John and Rosie had come home at teatime to find a feverish Sherlock shivering on the loo floor as he retched into the toilet bowl. He hadn’t been able to keep anything down for two days, and John had been too worried about him to be aroused by any of the goings-on. By the time Sherlock turned the corner, John had fallen ill, and there had certainly been nothing enjoyable about _that_ , for anyone. Sherlock had tried to help but ended up sympathy-puking into the nearest bin. After the second such incident, John finally ordered him to keep his distance and take care of Rosie, which he did willingly.

What John hadn’t realized was that Sherlock’s first bout of vomiting hadn’t happened in the bathroom, nor did he know the detective had had the foresight to set up a video recording when he felt himself falling ill. It had been messy—gloriously so. The splatter of that first heave hitting the floor was magnificent. John made a mental note to replay the video in slow motion to get the full effect of the splatter and spray and then play it again at regular speed for the sounds. John had never found anything amiss in the bedroom at the time, so it seemed that when properly motivated, his consulting detective was indeed capable of cleaning up after himself, and quite thoroughly, too. John would have to remember that. He began stripping the mattress of its bedding.

When Sherlock and Rosie arrived home half an hour later, they were greeted by a cheerful and freshly scrubbed John. Sherlock took in his slight flush and relaxed manner and rightly surmised that his blogger had taken matters into his own hands earlier. He gave a small smile as John winked at him from across the room.

It was only later, after they had laid Rosie in her cot and they were spooning in their own bed, that Sherlock murmured into John’s ear, “You changed the sheets.”

John hummed and nestled back into Sherlock. “It was necessary.”

“You found the video.” It wasn’t a question.

“Mmm. I did indeed,” said John drowsily. “The result was...quite explosive.”

“I wish I could have seen that.” Sherlock snuggled closer, humming contentedly. Something caught his eye and he squinted upward. “John?”

“Mmm?” John’s eyes were closed.

“There appears to be dried ejaculate on the headboard.”

John snorted and dissolved into giggles, and they spent the next seven minutes snickering like schoolboys. Later, John came for the second time that day, with Sherlock's cock spurting deep in his arse.

 


End file.
